


Sans Peur et Sans Reproche

by PericulaLudus



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos Whump, Drugs, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Laudanum, Major Illness, Medic Aramis, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Opiates, POV Aramis, POV Athos, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, Pre-Season/Series 02, Protective Musketeers, Protective Porthos, Religion, Seizures, Worried Musketeers, d'Artagnan Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5839759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks after the Queen’s pregnancy was announced, the musketeers spend a leisurely morning at the garrison with friendly sparring and light-hearted banter about Aramis’ latest amorous conquest. Yet before the day is out, the friends fear for Athos’ life and the frightening weeks that follow threaten to break all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Être prêt (Be Ready)

**Author's Note:**

> “Il faut avoir voulu mourir... pour savoir combien il est bon de vivre.”
> 
> — Alexandre Dumas, Le Comte de Monte Cristo
> 
> (“It is necessary to have longed for death... in order to know how good it is to be alive.”)

Athos woke with a groan. The wine had evidently failed to rid him of the headache that had been plaguing him for the past two days. He had retired early, expecting to find himself restored to full health in the morning. Instead each thought seemed to struggle through his brain agonisingly slow like a fly caught in honey.

Going about his morning routine proved to be a challenge, as every muscle in his body apparently found it necessary to ache the way they would after a particularly long and vicious fight. He thought back to the previous day as he stretched, but could not discern a particular reason for the soreness. There had been no fight, not even the slightest skirmish since that nasty business with Anne — _Milady de Winter_ that was — nearly two weeks ago. In fact, life had become positively boring by their standards. Not boring enough for him to have arm-wrestled with Porthos though, even if he currently felt no better than after that ill-fated endeavour years ago.

He walked down narrow _Rue Férou_ , careful to heed the shouts of “ _Gare à l’eau!”_ as the city around him began to wake. It was dark between the tall buildings, but once he was out in the open, he had to shield his eyes against the early morning light streaming down _Rue Saint Sulpice_ , drawing his hat far down to cover his face as he walked past the church the very moment the great bell struck six o’clock. He inwardly congratulated himself for his soldier’s discipline in rising so early. Discipline was one of the safeguards against his previous life; no overindulged young weakling of a Comte rose with the sun. Little though he might have achieved over the past few years, some things had changed for the better.

Paris was a long way from La Fère and rounding the corner to the musketeer garrison felt more like a homecoming than a return to his ancestral lands ever had.

He lifted his head minutely as he entered the common room, scanning the tables for his friends, but found them absent. Several musketeers were currently breaking their fast here, but he only gave them a court nod before taking a seat at an unoccupied table. A plate with bread and cheese appeared in front of him and Athos nodded his thanks, regretting the movement instantly as it felt like his brains were rattling about his skull without restraint. He declined the readily offered wine and took a cup of milk instead. His throat was sore and gave an uncomfortable twinge when he swallowed the warm liquid. He took a bite of his breakfast and chewed it slowly, but found it would simply not go down, so he took to dipping the bread into his milk instead.

Bernard, a comrade he valued greatly for his strength as much as his habitual silence, had smiled at him as he entered, but he was seated next to Etienne, one of their newest recruits, a promising boy who nevertheless looked far too excited at the prospect of having Athos join them. Athos had no particular desire to become the subject of an interrogation by some inquisitive youth. He already had to handle d’Artagnan’s incessant questions.

With a clatter and a shout of _“Good morning!”_ so loud it made Athos cradle his forehead in his hand, the young Gascon burst through the open door and threw himself onto the chair to Athos’ left, taking a hearty bite from an apple and shoving another across the table.

“First apples of the season, Serge found them at the market yesterday. Constance says they’re good for you. She worries about us, you know. Thinks highly of you, Constance does. Still a bit bitter though,” d’Artagnan said, then hastened to add “The apples, not Constance that is.”

Athos’ only answer was a groan as he massaged his temple. Constance... he made a mental note to talk to d’Artagnan about that matter. Later, when he felt better. When he looked up, the young musketeer watched him with a mixture of sympathy and teasing.

“That bad, eh?” he asked with a pointed glance at the cup of milk.

Athos drew himself up to his full height. “I fail to see how my choice of beverage is any of your concern,” he replied acerbically. “A clear head can only be beneficial to our duty. We are to report to the palace at noon.”

D’Artagnan looked poised to give a mocking reply judging by his smile, but Porthos’ arrival interrupted their conversation. He clapped them both on the shoulder in greeting, and then sat, grabbing the apple and the bread that remained on Athos’ plate.

“Aramis got himself in a spot of bother just outside the gate,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

D’Artagnan’s hand immediately flew to the weapon at his hip and he made to get up, but Athos waved him down. With the relaxed manner in which Porthos enjoyed his breakfast, danger was hardly imminent. Athos arched an eyebrow, demanding an explanation from his friend.

“Fat bloke,” Porthos elaborated. “Rich by the looks of him, some merchant or something. Shouting up a right storm about some Elaine.”

“Young, beautiful, and his wife, no doubt,” d’Artagnan added.

Porthos laughed. “He seemed the sort to be rather concerned with fidelity,” he admitted.

“Not inclined to shoot Aramis on the spot, I take it?” Athos asked.

“Nah, probably can’t tell one end of a pistol from the other,” Porthos said with a dismissive gesture. “Aramis’d run him through before he could even find the trigger.”

Athos fervently hoped it would not come to that. He had quite enough on his mind already with regards to Aramis and his libertine ways without adding Elaine’s suddenly deceased husband to that list.

The worry about their friend alleviated, banter flowed easily between d’Artagnan and Porthos. They came up with increasingly outlandish suggestions for activities Aramis had indulged in with his latest flame and Athos relished their joy and easy laughter.

D’Artagnan in his boundless youthful energy was grappling with Porthos before they had even exited the building. Athos listened to them wrestle in the courtyard, leaning against one of the support beams, closing his eyes, and pressing his aching head against the wood. There was indeed some commotion in the square beyond the gate, but listening carefully he could discern Aramis’ voice and while it was raised, it did not sound distressed. He should probably go out to ensure his friend’s wellbeing, but seeing that even conscientious Porthos had prioritised breakfast over the matter, he allowed himself a few more moments of rest. Intervention proved unnecessary when Aramis appeared in the archway a moment later.

“ _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumo_ ,” he shouted over his shoulder, loud enough for all to hear.

Athos opened his eyes and watched Aramis swagger towards them, a tell-tale smirk around his mouth.

“ _Irrumabo,_ ” he corrected. “Future active indicative, not present — clearly.”

“Rather obviously. Once more, I bow to your superior education,” Aramis said with a tip of the hat and a laugh.

“At any rate, you could do better than that, no doubt.”

“Please! I would never sink to that level!”

“Plague stifle you and your Latin!" said d'Artagnan, wriggling out of the headlock Porthos had held him in. “What did you shout at him?”

“Nothing fit for your little apprentice musketeer ears,” Aramis replied, flashing him a grin.

“ _Pardieu,”_ d’Artagnan cursed. “Will you stop it already, it’s not funny.”

“Still is to me,” Porthos said reasonably.

“Athos, what did he say?”

“For once, I entirely agree with Aramis,” Athos said. “That is not for you to know.”

“Oh come on! You are supposed to be in charge of my learning here!”

“And it seems to me that you have much to learn before we progress to the finer points of Latin verses. Porthos just overpowered you with such ease as to be embarrassing, both for you and for me as your mentor.”

D’Artagnan bristled visibly at the attack on his pride.

“I was distracted!”

“Then see to it that you are not.”

“ _Diable,_ I swear if Aramis doesn’t come in shouting some Latin...”

“Don’t blame your failures on me,” Aramis said in mock indignation.

“Oh fine then, I’ll show you that I can do better,” d’Artagnan replied and drew his weapon, pointing it at Athos. “I promise I can do better.”

Athos groaned and flexed his shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do in his current state was to spar, but he knew how insistent his young protégé could be if he really desired something and decided that there was no point in wasting his breath; it was easier to get the matter over with quickly.

His resolve wavered as soon as he drew his blade only to find it unusually heavy in his hand and the muscles in his arm aching from the small effort. He would have to end this swiftly.

D’Artagnan had improved dramatically since their first encounter, and even then Athos had found it more challenging to defeat him without hurting the boy than he did with most opponents. By now his natural talent had been enhanced with great experience and rigorous training, and it had become increasingly difficult for Athos to beat him. He still did, one way or another, his reputation as the best swordsman in the regiment not entirely undeserved, but while he would never tell the youngster, there was less between them in terms of skill than he cared to admit.

Their blades clashed in rapid succession as d’Artagnan’s furious attack led them in a merry dance around the courtyard. With a detached curiosity Athos observed that his reflexes were a fraction slower than usual, the swords meeting just a little closer to him than anticipated time and time again.

Fortunately, his legs seemed unaffected by this fatigue and he managed to sidestep a series of dangerous lunges. Nevertheless, the clanging of the metal was grating on his nerves and the abrupt movements did his head no favours, giving him little patience. For the sake of his sanity and at the expense of any teachable moments, he had to bring this fight to an end.

He was on the defensive for longer than he wished, able to see openings for an attack, but unable to capitalise on them due to the unusual slowness of his reactions. By the time he had forced his body into submission, his opponent had already changed course again.

His opportunity came when Tréville stepped out onto the balcony and called a group of their comrades into his office. D’Artagnan cast a quick glance at their captain and that moment of inattentiveness was enough for Athos to sweep his weapon aside, sidestep d’Artagnan’s attack and, using his own momentum against him, tap him lightly on the back with his own blade.

“You’re dead,” he said coldly. “Focus.”

“I did!” d’Artagnan protested.

“Obviously.”

“You said to keep an eye on my surroundings at all times!”

“One eye. Not both.”

Porthos laughed at that and clapped Athos on the shoulder, while Aramis put an arm around d’Artagnan, chuckling, but finding some encouraging words for the boy. Athos found himself a stool and sat in the shadow, leaning heavily against the wall and drawing his hat far down his forehead. His skull felt much too small to house its contents, squeezing his brain uncomfortably, and the light of the sun threw daggers at his eyes. He watched his friends engage in more friendly duels, but did not feel compelled to join them. Even in the shade, he was perspiring heavily, much more so than the temperature or the mild physical exertion warranted.

Athos tried to focus on assessing d’Artagnan’s development. His technique was good, even if it could still use some refinement, and he was swift on his feet. He tried to note any particular weaknesses they would have to work on, but felt his attention waver. He seemed just as unable to focus as his young charge.

The pain in his head only increased as the morning progressed, sharp flashes of agony becoming more and more frequent. He clenched his jaw against the pain and noticed that he must have been doing that a lot, as his jaw felt decidedly stiff. He was usually very aware of the damage he was doing to his own body, so this failure to register his behaviour earlier struck him as odd.

Even after he had rested for a while, he was still sweating profusely. It was a nice enough day for the early autumn, but by now it had become overcast and he could not blame the sun for the heat he felt. He realised, somewhat belatedly, that he had a fever. Again, this was peculiar. He was a man in good health and while he was not entirely unacquainted with the dangers of a fever, he usually only encountered them after injuries that had not been seen to fast enough, and with Aramis at his side that had become rare.

Rare or not, he evidently had a fever now, so Athos rose slowly from his perch and made his way over to the table. He almost dropped the jug trying to pour himself a glass of water, his hand was shaking so badly.

“Somebody needs a glass of something stronger,” Porthos shouted over to him. Athos glared at him. He was intimately familiar with that kind of fever and this was not it.

He forced himself to pay attention to his friends while trying to force the water down his throat. Even swallowing was a struggle. Aramis and d’Artagnan were lining up in front of the targets for some shooting practice, while Porthos was leaning against a wall polishing his pistol.

“So, you finally going to tell me what you said to Elaine’s husband?” d’Artagnan asked.

“That’s Madame du Pont to you,” Aramis called back. “And her husband died two years ago, _Dieu ait son âme,_ the gentleman who came calling this morning was her darling brother.”

“He didn’t seem to find you all that darling,” Porthos said with a snort.

“A regrettable misjudgement on his part.”

“So what did you say to him?” d’Artagnan interrupted.

“Persistent little bugger, aren’t you?” Porthos said as Aramis laughed.

D’Artagnan just smirked. He knew full well that his persistence usually paid off and Athos knew that he himself had proven him right in the past.

“Fine,” Aramis finally relented. “I’ll tell you, _mon ami_.”

He gave their young friend a moment to relish his victory before attaching conditions to his acquiescence. “Thirty feet, five shots. You beat me, I tell you.”

D’Artagnan was not shy about voicing his discontent and Athos wholeheartedly agreed. Not that it bothered him that they were unlikely to ever beat Aramis at marksmanship, but the ten shots required to reach that foregone conclusion were bound to be pure agony for him.

He retreated back to his corner, burying his head in his hands and wishing there was a somewhat dignified way to stuff his fingers into his ears. Each shot reverberated in his skull with a pain that was almost as bad as if the bullet had actually hit him.

His friends knew to leave him alone when one of his moods overcame him. In truth, they were probably quite content to have him remain within their line of sight and far from a bottle of wine for once. They had learned that there was no telling when he would regress and gave him a wide berth for most of the morning. Every now and again, one of them would check in on him.

Aramis wandered over to talk to him about their duty in the afternoon, assigned to attend to the king at a garden party, but his easy chatter was too loud in Athos’ head. The sound was somehow magnified to uncomfortable levels and he wished once more that he could block it out entirely. It seemed to set his whole body on edge, undeniably a side effect of the fever. His replies consisted of no more than a curt _yes_ or _no_ and with a shake of the head Aramis finally gave up and left him to his thoughts again.

Porthos came bearing gifts or rather wine.

“You look like you could use it,” he said and pressed the drink into Athos’ hand. He accepted it, but made no reply and shrank from his friend’s touch when Porthos made to grasp his shoulder in silent reassurance.

Athos stared at the wine in his hand without drinking as Porthos returned to the others, undoubtedly relaying the news that there truly was reason to worry, as the _old drunkard_ would not even touch his wine. Porthos was wrong. They were all wrong to worry about him after what had happened.

He had banished Anne.

From Paris, from France, but most importantly from his heart. He had banished her. She was not haunting him now, or so he tried to convince himself. He had banished her, he was finally rid of her, and there was no reason to worry about him. Two weeks had passed and he had not lost himself entirely, had not crawled into a bottle to wallow in his misery. He might not be hanging on by much, but he was hanging on, hanging on to that certainty that he had banished her, that he was rid of her forever.

Finally, they sent d’Artagnan. Aramis, at least, was well aware that the young Gascon was a powerful weapon where Athos was concerned. It was difficult to refuse him anything and already that had been enough to drag Athos out of a bottle more than once. So d’Artagnan it was, the last and most effective offensive against what his friends assumed was a return of his melancholia.

“Your Latin is so much better than Aramis’,” he said. “You always correct him. What was it that he did wrong this time?”

 _Morbleu,_ the boy was like a bloodhound on a boar hunt.

“Verb tense.”

“What was he really trying to say?”

Athos shot him a withering glare.

“Will you tell me the translation if I beat you in a duel?”

Athos did not dignify that with a response.

“I promise to stay completely and utterly focussed this time around. Even if the heavens open and judgement day arrives, I won’t be distracted.”

Athos gave a huff.

“Please Athos. I need to learn after all and it’s always better when you know you are fighting for something.”

Athos made a non-committal grunt.

“You always say I need to gain experience.”

“Correct.”

“What better way to gain experience than to fight the best swordsman in the whole of France?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“But Athos, it’s no flattery,” d’Artagnan said and without looking up Athos could picture his wide eyes, the look of pure innocence upon his face. “It’s the truth. And I know you want to help me gain that experience. It’s your duty after all.”

Athos looked up sharply at that. He had to go and say that, he had to bring duty into this.

D’Artagnan was smiling at him expectantly, his excitement evident, quite possibly at both his ability to elicit a response and to get his much-desired duel. They both knew he had won.

Athos rose slowly, his entire body aching as if he had been severely beaten. He tried to massage his jaw to alleviate some of the stiffness. He was no stranger to pain, but this was decidedly uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he agreed to the fight. It would not do to worry the boy, and maybe Aramis’ tactic was going to work and this would shake him out of his reverie.

There was, however, no reason to sacrifice his honour needlessly.

“Left hands only,” he announced as they took their positions, switching his blade to his left and adjusting his stance accordingly. “You need the practice.”

 _And you really do not need to know that you would easily beat me with your right_ , he added in his head. D’Artagnan had not trained much with his left before he joined them and was frustrated with his slow progress in the face of Athos’ practiced ambidexterity. It was probably not an entirely honourable move to force this upon the boy now, but Athos knew that he had a much clearer advantage over him with his left and therein lay his only hope that his friends might not notice the sorry state he was actually in. It would only worry them.

To d’Artagnan’s credit, the boy hardly even grumbled at the announcement. They both knew that he needed the practice. It was too easy to suffer an injury to one arm; with the lives they led it was not an option to be so easily incapacitated. Not that Athos wanted to think about the boy being hurt in any way, but he knew it was bound to happen and regarded it as his duty to prepare him adequately. Some skill with his left might one day save d’Artagnan’s life.

They started off slowly, going through the motions of a duel with little evidence of d’Artagnan’s customary fire and creativity. He was not exactly clumsy with the sword in his left, but his movement lacked the finesse and refinement he exhibited with his preferred hand. D’Artagnan was testing the waters, trying to get used to the unusual challenge. The leisurely pace suited Athos. He used either hand easily and knew he did an opponent no favour by fighting with his left, having been drilled long and hard to achieve an almost identical level of skill. At any rate, much of the fight was in the mind, the physicality only providing a framework that was then to be filled by precise planning and cool intent.

True to his word, d’Artagnan focussed. The look of rapt concentration on his face would have been comical, had Athos not known how utterly necessary it was to their profession. While d’Artagnan’s youthful spirit was endearing, he could not afford to let his emotions rule him. They were soldiers of the king, and fancied themselves among the best, but that distinction brought with it more challenging tasks and more dangerous assignments. They had seen time and time again that they were not invincible and that their weaknesses were bound to have a grave impact upon those they protected.

D’Artagnan gained confidence with each clash of their swords. Soon he began to move more swiftly, adjusting his movement to the inconvenient fighting stance and started to make use of his superior agility. A few times Athos managed to break through his defences, but each time d’Artagnan would dance out of harm’s way in the nick of time. It frustrated Athos to see his usually impeccable efficiency diminished by the inexplicable slowness of his motions.

Athos had become rather skilled at fighting with the one or the other handicap. He saw it as an exercise, a way to prove his mental and physical resilience, that he was able to adjust his style not only to his opponent, but also to his own limitations. There was no adjusting for this though.

New symptoms of his disability kept appearing. Not only was his arm weak, the muscles clenching at the weight of the rapier, but he also found his ability to turn diminished. His head in particular just would not move, the stiffness from his jaw bleeding into his neck and down to his shoulders. To be able to follow the ever-moving young musketeer with his eyes, he found he had to turn his whole body, a major inconvenience in any fight, but even more so when his muscles were so slow to obey his command.

To his horror, Athos realised that he was not fit for duty. He would have to beg the afternoon off from Tréville, possibly even face the wrath of the king who was not used to being denied what he wanted or who he wanted at his side, but he would be of no use to anyone in this state.

The glint of metal at his shoulder startled Athos out of his ruminations. He needed to take his own advice and focus. He managed to parry the blow at the last moment, but the impact made the muscles in his arm and neck spasm. His jaw clenched painfully, teeth grinding together. He staggered backwards on stiff legs, trying to keep his eyes on d’Artagnan.

“Athos,” Porthos called out, worry evident in his voice. Worry that should not be there.

D’Artagnan did not hear. This time around he was actually focussing. His sword glanced off Athos’ shoulder guard and down to his unarmed right hand. Athos felt the touch of the blade, but was unable to withdraw his arm.

This was getting dangerous.

Every clash of their blades rolled like a shockwave through his body. There was blood in his mouth from where his tightly clenched teeth had bitten into his cheek. He had to end this. He was not usually one to surrender, not willing to go down as long as he still breathed, but now he wanted to do just that. He wanted to give up. He wanted to call out to his friends, but he couldn’t. He was unable to open his mouth or move his tongue. The only sound he could make was a distressed grunt. Not even Porthos would see that as anything unusual in a fight.

D’Artagnan struck a vicious blow towards his chest and Athos tried to take a step backwards, tried to get out of reach. He stumbled. He could not tell if there was something on the ground or if it was just the stiffness of his legs, but he lost his balance.

D’Artagnan cheered and lunged forwards at the same time as Porthos hollered for him to stop and rushed to catch him by the shoulder, before Athos had even hit the ground.

Athos stared at them wide-eyed as he fell, d’Artagnan’s glee at his first victory over him a sharp contrast to the dread on Porthos’ face. His legs and arms were stiff, offering him no chance to break his fall, the sword still clutched tightly in his left.

The impact on the ground was sharp. As soon as his back hit the hard soil, his abdominal muscles clenched violently as if he had been punched in the gut and Athos involuntarily curled in on himself, his face pressed against the earth. His jaw was seized by an even more intense cramp and he felt his whole face stretch, the corners of his mouth being drawn back against his will, lips stretching, baring his teeth in a grin.

There was pain, the taste of blood on his teeth, and somewhere far away he heard a clamour of voices. All he could see was the ground and the hard earth beneath him.

There was a gentle hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding, and somebody was calling his name. He was here, he had not lost consciousness, but he could make no answer.

They turned him until he was lying on his back, looking up at them. Aramis was kneeling next to him, Porthos and a very guilty looking d’Artagnan leaning over his shoulders. In the distance, several other figures were approaching, but Athos focussed only on his three friends.

Porthos and d’Artagnan seemed relieved to see him conscious, but Aramis had barely glimpsed Athos’ face when all the colour drained out of him and he crossed himself.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” he gasped. “Athos. _Mon cher_ Athos...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations:
> 
> Rue Férou According to Alexandre Dumas “Athos dwelt in the Rue Férou, within two steps of the Luxembourg”  
> Gare à l'eau Literally “watch the water” — shout to warn the passer-by that a chamber pot were being emptied into the street. Incidentally the reason it’s called a loo.  
> Rue Saint Sulpice Road in Paris’ 6th Arrondissement featuring the impressive church Saint Sulpice  
> Pardieu “By God” (2nd most common curse in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, used 38 times)  
> Diable “Devil” (3rd most common curse in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, used 19 times)  
> Dieu ait son âme “God rest his soul”  
> Mon ami “My friend” (used by one of the four to refer to another 22 times in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, most often Athos to d’Artagnan)  
> Morbleu A polite version of “mordieu” “God’s death”, substituting “bleu” (blue) for “Dieu” to avoid blasphemy (6th most common curse in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, used 10 times)  
> Mon Dieu “My God” (most common curse in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, used 72 times)  
> Mon cher “My dear” (used by one of the four to refer to another 78 times in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, 19 times by Aramis)
> 
> With many thanks to my wonderful beta Marigoldfaucet. Without her, this chapter would have been written in approximately seven massive and massively confusing paragraphs.


	2. Droit devant (Straight ahead)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly, dear reviewers, it has been great to hear from you.
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful beta Marigoldfaucet and my French language&culture consultant Meysun.

"I didn't hurt him, I swear I didn't, my sword just glanced off his doublet... I think... there's no cut is there? Aramis? I didn't mean to hurt you, Athos, I didn't, I swear!"

D'Artagnan's voice sounded close to hysteria as he wriggled out of Porthos' grasp and dropped to his knees beside Athos. At least that was what Athos assumed he did. He was still unable to turn his head, staring straight at Aramis who was looking down at him with grim determination.

A hand appeared at the edge of his vision and Athos wanted to escape from it, but did not have the energy to move. Porthos vanished from behind Aramis, there was a soft thud and the hand disappeared before it could touch Athos.

"Let him be, _mon ami_ ," Porthos said softly. "Give Aramis some space to do his work."

"He's not dead, is he?" d'Artagnan asked timidly. "I didn't kill him, tell me I didn't kill him..."

Athos watched Aramis look up and smile slightly, shaking his head, and then he heard Porthos' voice again, gentle and calming as if he was speaking to a spooked horse.

"He's alive, d'Artagnan. Just let Aramis see to him. We know you didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes accidents happen. It'll be alright."

He continued to talk tenderly to their young friend and Athos knew that it should be him doing the talking. He should be taking care of d'Artagnan; the boy was his responsibility. Instead he lay there on the ground, curled around his cramping stomach and unable to even open his mouth. A fine example he was setting.

Athos tried to calm himself, feeling high-strung and on edge. He needed to calm himself. He closed his eyes and took a breath, trying to slowly expand his lungs until he met resistance from his cramped up muscles. He tried again, and again, taking in a little more air each time, willing his body to relax. Slowly, very slowly, the tightness in his abdomen abated a little. He still felt sore, but he no longer felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. His limbs slackened a little, though his muscles still ached.

"He moved! He moved his hand!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "He's going to be fine, right Aramis? He's fine."

"Give him a bit of time," Porthos reprimanded. "He must be winded. You put up a good fight."

"I won," d'Artagnan stated, his Gascon stubbornness be blessed, but quickly his voice grew worried once more. "Why is there blood on his teeth? I didn't hurt his lungs, did I? Did he break a rib? Aramis?

Athos knew he needed to focus on d'Artagnan now. He was scaring the boy and that was certainly not part of his remit. When he opened his eyes, Aramis was looking at him fondly. A gentle hand traced Athos' jaw and he realised that it was still tightly clenched, felt the muscles bunch under Aramis' touch. He must be a gruesome sight, his mouth stretched wide, and undoubtedly smeared with blood. No wonder the boy was afraid.

"I doubt it," Aramis said. "I think he merely bit his tongue when he fell."

D'Artagnan breathed an audible sigh of relief, but Athos had noticed the tightly controlled tone in Aramis' soft voice. From the way in which Aramis glanced sideways, Porthos had noticed it as well. Aramis was no physician, but he usually had excellent instincts where their wellbeing was concerned.

Athos disliked being the reason his friend sounded so concerned. Aramis had seen enough despair.

"I'm going to touch your body, Athos," Aramis said. "Just to see if anything is broken or bleeding. I'll be gentle about it."

He always was. His hands were soft, too soft for a musketeer, but Athos had seen those hands do many things and knew there was steel behind the velvet touch. As Athos felt those hands ghost over his body from the head down, he tried to slacken his jaw. He was still very conscious of his breathing, and with every breath he tried to relax a little more. Too much time had passed; he had made them worry for way too long already.

Athos breathed the same way he would to focus his thoughts before a fight. In. Out. Relax. He _had to_ loosen his jaw. He experimentally moved his tongue. It felt sluggish and too large in his parched mouth, but it moved.

"Nothing broken and no wounds, not that I can tell," Aramis said, concluding his brief examination. "I need to check you over properly though."

He shook his head and there was something in his eyes, some sadness that Athos could not place.

"I'm fine," Athos said, his voice raspy, but audible.

They all stared at him. Then d'Artagnan grinned, while a slow smile stretched across Porthos' face. Yet Aramis was still looking grim.

"You, _mon cher,_ are very far from fine," he said.

"Any chance we can move him inside?" Porthos asked softly, his eyes roving across the courtyard. Athos could see them, their fellow musketeers, crowding around the four men on the ground. Accidents happened, and minor injuries were nothing unusual, but to see one of their comrades down for so long certainly was.

Athos closed his eyes and tried to focus. His first instinct was that he could not possibly walk, but he knew that was not an option. He needed to get to his rooms and sleep off this strange fever.

"Help me up," he said and wished it sounded more like a command than a plea.

"Slowly," Aramis cautioned when d'Artagnan pounced instantly. "Sit him up first."

Athos was hard-pressed to avoid a grunt of pain when d'Artagnan pushed him upright by his shoulders. It took him a while to even out his breathing again, as he sat there in the mud with d'Artagnan's arm slung across his shoulders. He was glad he still did not feel up to turning his head. He could picture the look of concern in those large eyes and had no need to see it, to be reminded that his weakness had put it there.

"You alright?"

Athos made a small sound that he hoped sounded more affirmative to them than it did to his own ears. Apparently it did, as they started to manoeuvre him upright. He would have fallen down immediately, had Porthos and d'Artagnan not been there to support him. Shivers ran through him and he fought hard to keep his stomach from clenching again, but ultimately succeeded. He stood up with his back as straight as ever, though he was still breathing heavily.

He started to walk and was reminded of a small foal, his legs stiff and unwieldy. His friends hovered at his elbows, ready to catch him should he falter. He was sweating heavily after only two steps and felt himself waver. He gritted his teeth. He had to make it back to his rooms to sleep this off away from prying eyes.

"Aramis!" Tréville's loud voice made Athos flinch. "End this madness. Bring him to my rooms."

"Yes, captain," Aramis answered, completely obedient. As much as Athos wanted to resist, he was starting to realise that he was in no state to walk back to _Rue Férou_. On top of that, this was an order and Tréville's rooms were closest.

There he could sit down for a while to recover.

"What do you need?" Tréville asked.

Athos heard Aramis sigh.

"A physician."

Athos wanted to protest. He knew he was in the best hands with Aramis. It was only a light fever anyways, no cause to trouble a physician, no reason to waste money on some charlatan when Aramis was right here. He was about to voice his protest when his legs buckled and he found himself in Porthos' arms. His friend dragged rather than guided him up the stairs.

Resistance was futile.

* * *

By the time the physician, a hawkish man of advanced years, had arrived, they had put him onto Tréville's bed. It was an insubordination Athos did not approve of, but lacked the luxury to protest at present.

"Why was I called to this man's bedside?" the physician asked with an authoritative air. Athos felt his eyes rove over his prone body.

"He collapsed in training, _Monsieur_ ," Aramis said. "He never lost consciousness, and there is no injury evident, but he has a slight fever. There is also a stiffness to his limbs, his abdominal muscles cramped tightly when he fell and..." He seemed hesitant to continue. "...his jaw locked for several minutes."

The physician breathed in sharply through his teeth.

Porthos offered the old man a chair he had dragged over from the desk, and the physician sat without even glancing at the musketeer. There was none of Aramis' gentleness in his hands as he grasped Athos' arms, feeling the tight muscles there and making him flinch. Then he gave Athos' thighs a squeeze and put a firm hand on his stomach. The others had helped Athos out of his leathers, which he welcomed because of the heat he felt, but now he wished for what small protection his clothing could provide. He felt like a horse at the market, prodded and poked to assess his health and his worth. It was a quick, perfunctory examination, concluded with a sharp prod of Athos' jaw that sent pain shooting through his body.

The physician got up quickly, wiping his hands on a pristine handkerchief.

"This man needs a priest, not a surgeon," he said, turning towards Aramis.

"What?" d'Artagnan gasped.

"He only has a slight fever," Porthos growled.

"A deathly infection has taken hold of his body. It progresses quickly. He would do well to say his adieus and make his confessions," the physician said, taking a step towards the door.

"How can you be sure?" Aramis asked, his voice tightly controlled and his mouth set. Athos realised then that Aramis knew what was ailing him and what the prognosis was, had known even down in the courtyard. He felt sadness, not for his own fate, but because he caused his friend such pain.

The physician regarded the questioner critically, but eventually took pity on the three men surrounding him.

"My bag," he commanded, holding out his hand. Porthos was quick to retrieve the doctor's heavy leather bag and after a brief search the man withdrew a thin metal spatula.

"Open your mouth," the physician said to Athos, sitting down once more. Athos considered disobeying, but his eyes fell on Aramis and he knew his friend needed confirmation. He struggled to pry his teeth apart, but did so at last.

"I shall touch the back of his throat," the physician explained. "The natural bodily reaction would be for the patient to gag and try to expel the object."

Athos did not focus on the man; he was watching his friends who stood behind him. They all nodded their understanding, although they looked sceptical. They should no have to worry. If gagging was all that was required of him, Athos was sure to perform to everyone's full satisfaction.

The cold metal slipped past his lips and was pushed across his tongue. Athos tensed slightly in anticipation of the uncomfortable feeling as the spatula came in contact with the back of his throat.

His teeth clamped down viciously on the thin instrument with an audible snap. He felt the physician give a sharp pull, but the man was unable to retrieve his instrument. His teeth would not yield, the muscles of his yaw clenching once more.

"Tetanus," the physician said, getting up once more. "The tetanus infection has taken hold of your comrade. My sympathies, _messieurs,_ this will be a most unpleasant death."

"No!" d'Artagnan shouted and dropped to his knees beside the bed, clutching Athos' shoulder.

Athos was acutely aware of how surreal the situation was. There he was, lying in his commanding officer's bed with a piece of metal sticking out between his lips, unable to even open his mouth.

"He is _not_ going to die," Porthos growled, towering over the physician.

"What can we do for him?" Aramis asked.

"Send for a priest, _monsieur_ ," the physician said, not without feeling. "Ensure the last rites are administered, so his soul may go on its journey in peace."

"Never!" Aramis hissed, all control gone from his voice. "We are soldiers, we fight! We will fight for his body before calling a priest for his soul. What can we do for him?"

The doctor did not chide him for his outburst; in fact he looked sympathetic. He shook his head slowly before he replied.

"The illness affects his muscles. The rigidity of his body will only increase. The spasms you have seen were only the beginning, they will become more frequent and severe, contracting his muscles to bursting," he explained and even though Athos knew it was his fate he described, he felt no apprehension at the pronouncement.

"Can that kill a man?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Death occurs when the spasms set into the muscles of his chest," the physician replied. "Eventually they will stop his breathing and his heart. All you can do is to make him comfortable until then."

"Warm baths to relax his muscles," Aramis mused, worrying his beard between his fingers.

"I advise against any agitation," the physician cautioned. "The slightest excitement can result in a fatal contraction of the muscles."

"What can we do then?"

The physician looked at Athos who still lay there like a fool with his jaws clenched tight around the spatula, then back to Aramis.

"Try to keep the fever low and strive to make him drink, water and some fortifying wine. Some food as well, as there is no telling how long this disease might take to run its course, but only broth and a weak gruel. Anything more substantial might make him gag and that may prove instantly fatal in his weakened state. He will increasingly struggle to swallow, but you must persist. When you can no longer make him take food and drink, death will be imminent."

Athos knew that it was his death they were talking about. He heard d'Artagnan shift uneasily and Porthos sniffle suspiciously, and he was loath to cause them pain, but felt no trepidation for himself.

"What about relieving the pain?" Aramis asked.

"We bear the pain that the Lord sees fit to assign to us," the physician replied with genuine surprise in his voice. "Surely you do not suggest shirking the burden of our worldly existence so callously. Ever since Adam's fall from grace, pain has been at the very core of human life. A fervent prayer will be all the pain relief your comrade requires."

Athos watched Aramis grind his teeth in frustration. His religious beliefs frequently clashed with his daily life, but usually seemed to unite with his efforts as a medic. It was difficult to watch him struggle to reconcile the two now. When Aramis spoke again, he had obviously decided to drop the matter for the time being.

"I have heard of tetanus after amputations or in burn victims, but Athos has no injury. How could this have happened?"

"This pestilence is powerful," the physician replied. "It enters the body through the smallest wound, a cut or a scratch may have been sufficient."

"I see." Aramis nodded his understanding before coming to sit next to Athos on the edge of the bed, smiling at him. He gently wriggled the spatula and was able to remove it as Athos' jaw had slackened somewhat. Athos was thankful for it. He swallowed awkwardly, trying to ignore the pain in his throat.

"Have you taken an injury recently?" Aramis asked.

"No," Athos answered with conviction.

"Mind if I check?"

"By all means."

Aramis very gently helped him out of his shirt and began to meticulously search his upper body for any sign of a wound, soft fingers ghosting over every inch of skin.

"What is this?" he asked, hand resting on Athos' right shoulder.

Athos turned his head very slowly, fighting his own muscles to look at what had caught his friend's attention.

"There's a thin red line running up from your armpit, looks like a recently healed cut," Aramis explained.

"That was nothing," Athos said, remembering. "Shallow cut, tip of a sword caught me. It hardly even bled."

"When was that?"

"Two weeks ago, in the fight with... with Sarazin's men."

It would be so typical of Anne to get her revenge in such a way. An insignificant wound, the bite of a snake to poison him. Aramis apparently shared his suspicions.

" _Sangdieu!"_ he cursed. "Is there any way tetanus can be used as a poison, to purposefully infect a person?"

"Tetanus may take weeks to show its true nature," the physician replied thoughtfully. "But I have never heard of such an accusation. It is unknown what causes the disease, though it occurs most commonly in farmers and stablemen, so some suggest it may be born in the soil."

There had been dirt... the streets of Paris were always dirty... dirt and straw and horse dung if Athos remembered correctly. Poisoned by the dirt of Paris. It would be a fitting end for him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Aramis asked. "Why do you always have to try and hide?"

"It was a small wound, I washed it thoroughly," Athos answered. "You had other concerns at the time."

Aramis breathed out sharply through his teeth, catching the meaning behind these words. His fingers probed along the healed cut.

"No sign of infection," he concluded. "What can be done to draw the poison from his body?"

"As with any poison, I recommend bleeding the patient thoroughly," the physician said. "But really that would be..."

"...most unwise," Aramis interrupted. "I dare not weaken him further."

"But _Monsieur_ , we see many most excellent results through bloodletting, it is a well-documented practice, used since antiquity for a variety of afflictions..."

"What else?" Aramis asked. It spoke of his desperation to learn more about the disease and its treatment that he wasn't more vocal about his disdain for bloodletting.

"With an infection, the prudent physician would open the wound and cauterise it to burn away any unhealthy matter."

Athos watched Aramis turn his eyes to the heavens, undoubtedly in a silent prayer for patience.

"You recommended to avoid any agitation, advice that seems _prudent_ , but can hardly be followed if I attack him with hot blades," he said, his voice tight with ill-concealed annoyance. "The wound has healed completely with no sign of infection."

"And yet the tetanus has entered his body," the physician replied. "It would be folly not to eliminate it where we can."

"Your guess seems to be as good as mine regarding the manner of that elimination," Aramis shot back, getting to his feet.

"I have studied the medical sciences at the university and healed more men than some jumped up battlefield medic ever will," the physician replied with indignation.

"And I have seen more men die than you ever will," Aramis said, his voice icy. "And I swear by all that is holy that Athos won't be one of them."

They glared at each other, learned physician and self-taught medic.

"I think your services are no longer required here," Porthos said before matters could get out of control. He was resting one hand heavily on the physician's shoulder, offering him his bag with the other. He steered the man through the door, closing it behind him and leaning against the solid wood.

"What a stuck-up prick," he said and Athos huffed out a small laugh. Three sets of eyes stared at him.

"Is he correct?" Athos asked, looking at Aramis.

Aramis combed his fingers through his hair before he took a deep breath and replied.

"There can be no doubt about the diagnosis, but he is as clueless as you and I about the treatment."

"Your prognosis?"

Aramis swallowed heavily, but met Athos' eyes without hesitation.

"I refuse to let you die."

"Fair enough."

Silence fell. Aramis was pacing up and down, from Tréville's desk to the armoury and back. D'Artagnan was still sitting on the floor, and Athos tried to give him a reassuring glance. The young man smiled.

"You're not going to die, Athos," he whispered, then, in a vain attempt to lighten the mood, he added in a louder voice "So since I won, are you finally going to translate that Latin thing for me?"

Since Aramis did not react, he looked questioningly at Porthos. Porthos barked out a short laugh that made Athos wince.

"Don't look at me, mate. They won't tell me either."

"Not for your innocent ears," Aramis said distractedly, running a hand through his hair again.

"I'm not _that_ innocent," d'Artagnan pointed out. While that might be true, Athos doubted he was entirely ready to hear that Aramis had threatened to _sodomize and face-fuck_ the man, even if he had cited a Roman poet to do so. The finer points of the meaning of Catullus' lines would probably be lost on the boy.

Silence fell again, except for Aramis' steps that seemed to beat a steady rhythm against Athos' skull.

Eventually, Porthos sighed.

"Can't you do something, Aramis?"

"This is beyond my skill to treat," Aramis said dejectedly.

"What're we going to do now?"

Aramis did not even stop in his pacing and did not seem inclined to answer, so Athos mustered his strength. He knew that waiting was the worst part of any battle. His friends would be relieved to have something to do.

"Check with Tréville that arrangements have been made to assign other musketeers to the king's garden party," he said, trying to make it sound commanding despite lying prone in bed, unable to rise on his own. "Thank him for giving me use of his chambers for the time being."

He had to pause to regain his breath. Porthos and d'Artagnan were looking at him, grateful for the direction given, and even Aramis stood still.

"If Tréville wishes an update, I'm afraid I'll have to ask him to come to me. Send my apologies for that," he added. "Say nothing to him of my condition, nor to anyone else."

Athos did not want one of them to have to go through the trouble of retelling what they had learned.

"Of course," Porthos said, and d'Artagnan nodded eagerly.

"And finally," Athos concluded after another pause. "Go and get me some wine. There's a crate of _Tokay d'Alsace_ in my rooms."

All three stared at him, scandalised.

"You can't mean to..." Porthos said.

"Athos, you're sick," d'Artagnan found necessary to point out. "Aramis, tell him he can't drink!"

"You heard the physician," Athos said, trying to muster his usual authority. "I won't be able to swallow for much longer. While I can, I'd like to drink something of exceptional quality."

He hoped he did not have to add that he disagreed with the physician on the matter of pain relief. His words hung between them.

"You need your strength," Aramis finally said. "Do not hurt your body further with drink."

"I was always going to end this way," Athos said. "In a bottle."

"No!" d'Artagnan said and punched the floor. "Don't say that!"

"You've gotten much better," Porthos reasoned.

Aramis stalked over with three long strides and leaned over Athos.

"You're not going to drink yourself to death on my watch."

Athos gave the slight indication of a nod that his stiff neck allowed. If it was important to his friend, he would oblige.

At least his request had spurred Aramis into action.

"Porthos, you go and talk to Tréville. Ask him about the physician's fee as well," he said. "D'Artagnan, go down to the kitchen and ask Serge for some warm water and some cloths — Athos, you need to clean up a bit. Bring food as well; it must be past midday now. Soup for Athos. And before he goes and gets it himself, _au nom du ciel_ , get him a cup of wine." He turned to Athos with a thunderous look that reminded him of his strictest childhood tutors. " _One cup!_ I'll stay here and make sure _you_ don't do anything stupid."

Porthos chuckled at that and Athos tried to force his mouth into a smirk. Now _that_ was a change from the usual. D'Artagnan and Porthos filed out and Athos flinched involuntarily when the beam of light from the door hit his eyes. The now customary shockwave ran through his body once more, making him shiver.

"I had no right to refuse you the last rites," Aramis said, as soon as the others had left the room. "I may refuse to let you die, but I should not refuse your soul salvation. I'll call for the priest if you want."

"I do not fear hellfire and damnation," Athos said truthfully. He had already lived through his personal hell; a hell without Anne would be preferable. Aramis bristled at his words.

"Do not say that, _mon cher_ ," he replied, sitting on the chair at the bedside. "You are an honourable man, and God will not forsake you."

Athos made no reply. The matter was important to Aramis and it served no purpose to hurt his friend by questioning his beliefs. He was glad Aramis had that unshakeable faith to aid him through the difficult times.

"So, _Aureli_ _pathice_ ," Athos said after a long silence, attempting to lighten the mood by quoting the next words of Aramis' earlier sordid Roman poetry. _Bottom Aurelius_ seemed a fair description of the man that had crossed him.

Aramis gave a small huff of amusement. "Your knowledge of Latin is broader than I give you credit for."

"I was a bored adolescent with access to an extensive library. Including the full works of Catullus."

Aramis chuckled. "Just how you learned the correct conjugation of _irrumare_..."

"Be careful, _mon ami_ ," Athos said eventually. "The man you regaled with such poetry..."

"He is no danger," Aramis was quick to assure him. "In all honesty, he may be right," he added after a long pause. "No man of honour would act the way I do."

There was guilt in his words, a rarity with joyous Aramis. Athos took as deep a breath as his condition allowed. He was still livid with his friend for his liaison with the queen, but if he were to die here, Aramis would lose the only confessor he could ever have for that guilt.

Athos felt his strength drain quickly during their conversation, halting though it had been. He knew he had to find the right words quickly.

 _"Vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea_ ," he said, translating when Aramis clearly did not comprehend. "My life is moral though my muse is gay. Ovid's Tristia. Catullus 16 was not merely a filthy threat, it is a defence against allegations that he was soft and immoral because of the saccharine verses he wrote."

Aramis made to interrupt him, but Athos stopped him with a glance. He was tiring fast.

"You cannot know the character of a man by his poems on the page or by his deeds in the bedroom," he continued. "You are a good man, _mon cher ami."_

* * *

Sitting up in bed had been painful, washing himself a struggle, and by the time d'Artagnan had brought him a bowl of soup, Athos had wanted nothing more than sleep. He refused their help, his strength to keep up some semblance of control. Every spoon that he brought to his mouth was a fight against the stiffness of his arms, swallowing an unnatural effort.

He woke abruptly and once again his muscles cramped, his shoulders and stomach clenching tightly. It was as painful as it had been in the courtyard, but less surprising.

They did not speak much as the afternoon slowly turned into evening. Nobody dared to interrupt them; such were Tréville's orders. Tréville himself had accompanied the king to the party, but he had sent his regards and promised to visit Athos upon his return to the garrison that night.

Aramis had stopped pacing and sat on a chair. He alternated between praying silently and thumbing through a book that he had retrieved earlier. To Athos he seemed much too serious, withdrawing deep within himself, leaving no trace of the vivacious young libertine. He hated that he was doing this to him. If he was to die, he'd rather not put such strain upon his friends.

Porthos alone remained cheerful, making the room feel less like a death chamber. Every now and again, he would try to start a conversation, and a few times he had gone to fetch a bottle of water, once even returning with an apple for d'Artagnan. He had tried to get the boy interested in a round of _piquet_ , but d'Artagnan barely raised his head, so Porthos perched on Tréville's desk, shuffling and reshuffling his deck of cards.

D'Artagnan was still sitting on the floor, although he had moved to the foot of the bed, leaning his shoulder against the cast-iron screen that divided the room. He was uncharacteristically quiet, the inquisitive youth all but forgotten, as he sat for hours with his knees drawn tight to his chest.

Athos wished he could say or do something to ease his pain. It seemed unfair on the boy to keep him here, sitting and waiting for death, possibly for days or even weeks to come. But every time Athos had suggested he go outside, d'Artagnan had refused ardently. The boy was nothing if not loyal, even to his own detriment.

The room was slowly disappearing in darkness, as none of them had thought to light a candle. The sounds of the garrison faded away outside the door. It was just the four of them now.

"I've seen this before," d'Artagnan said, still facing his knees.

"What?" Aramis prompted.

"Tetanus." The boy's voice was unusually high. "One of my father's horses... her legs were all stiff and her back... they called it lockjaw."

Athos saw the dark shape of Porthos slide off the desk and join d'Artagnan on the ground.

"So what did your father do? How did he treat her?" Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan took a shaky breath.

"He shot her," he whispered. "Said it was a mercy..."

Two gasps and soft curses broke the heavy silence that followed. To Athos, the words came as no surprise, but rather as a welcome confirmation that he had been right to allow his thoughts to stray in such directions.

"My pistol, please," he said calmly.

They all turned abruptly to face him, had probably not realised he was awake enough to listen.

"You heard him," Athos said. "Show me the same mercy you'd grant a horse."

More gawking followed, but still no answer.

"I won't ask you to do it," he clarified. "My pistol, if you would, please."

More silence followed. He knew he was hurting them, but better one short sharp pain than weeks of agony watching him waste away slowly with no hope of recovery. He had no right to torture them so. It was the only logical conclusion to end this now.

"That's sin, Athos," Aramis finally said, his voice toneless. "You wouldn't... you wouldn't even be buried with the others."

Athos was convinced that one more sin really wouldn't make a jot of a difference in the great big tally of his wrongdoings, but he acquiesced for the sake of his friends. He mused about going out on the streets. The way trouble always found him, it shouldn't take him too long until he came across a welcome blade or bullet, but in the end he had to admit that he was too weak to do even that.

"You can't!" d'Artagnan cried and there were definitely tears in his voice as he rose to his feet. "You can't just give up like we don't matter at all. You can't do that to us!"

Athos wanted to explain to him the logic behind his words, but the young Gascon never gave him a chance to do so. Instead he stormed out of the room, throwing the door shut with a bang so loud the whole room seemed to shake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations
> 
> A note about the titles... The title of this fic "Sans Peur et Sans Reproche" translates as "Without fear and beyond reproach" a descriptor first given to the Chevalier de Bayard, a French knight and hero who probably loomed very large in the 17th century. Bayard is also described as "the good knight" and was a model of chivalry. His last words are recorded as "There is no need to pity me. I die as a man of honour ought, doing my duty". Athos' character and moral standards remind me of Bayard. The phrase is also one of the mottos of the Alpine Rangers, an elite regiment of the French army.
> 
> The chapter titles are all mottos of French military regiments. Chapter 1 was the motto of the 2nd Infantry Regiment of the Foreign Legion (my pen name also comes from the Foreign Legion), and the title of Chapter 2 is the motto of the 35th Parachute Artillery Regiment.
> 
> Sangdieu Blood of God (8th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 7 times)
> 
> Tokay d'Alsace Antiquated name for pinot gris wine from the French region of Alsace
> 
> Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo I will sodomize you and face-fuck you — first line of Carmen 16 one of the poems of Gaius Valerius Catullus (ca. 84 BC – ca. 54 BC), a response to criticism that the poet was soft and feminine because of his romantic love poems
> 
> Au nom du ciel In the name of heaven (5th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 14 times)
> 
> Aureli pathice Bottom Aurelius, refers to one of Catullus' friends (and critics), Marcus Aurelius Cotta Maximus Messalinus, a first-century consul
> 
> Vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea My life is moral though my muse is gay, Ovid (Tristia 2.354) also commenting on the matter that a poet's work is not necessarily an accurate reflection of his morals.
> 
> Mon cher ami My dear friend (used 9 times in "Les Trois Mousquetaires" for one of the four to refer to another, once by Porthos, twice by Athos, thrice each by d'Artagnan and Aramis)
> 
> Piquet French trick-taking card game for two players, invented in the early 16th-century, particular popularity documented during 30 years war (1618-1648)


	3. Le devoir d’excellence  (Devoted to excellence)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, cherished readers!
> 
> Just to respond to some concerns: This is a ten chapter story. It is completely plotted out and is guaranteed to be completed. While I attempt to update every 7-10 days, this is not always possible due to work and family commitments. I won’t publish anything I’m not happy with, as I believe you deserve quality writing, so my wonderful beta Marigold Faucet and I whittle away at a chapter until it’s good. The latter part of the current one was completely deleted and rewritten.
> 
> There isn’t much to be done about my work deadlines or the need to respond to my students’ requests in a timely manner. Please understand that these things have to take priority over fanfiction. But if you want to help me produce more frequent updates on this story, please give me some feedback. Hearing about what you liked, what you felt, and what questions & headcanons you had while reading does wonders for my fic writing motivation and helps me shape the way I write subsequent chapters. For example, there’s much more Porthos in this chapter due to the demands of certain reviewers. I hope you enjoy it!

_Pain._

For a while, a white-hot flash of pain was all that Athos' brain registered. What had previously been a shockwave running through his body could now only be described as something akin to lightning.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind d’Artagnan didn’t register in his ears, but in his muscles instead, swiftly spreading to every fibre of his being. It started in his face. His skin was pulled backwards violently, his eyes opening wide because of the stretch. His teeth were once again bared in a satanic grin.

Aramis was crossing himself.

The pain shot down Athos’ neck, making the muscles contract. His chin lifted on its own accord as his neck arched backwards further and further until only the back of his head was touching the pillow. His shoulders were next, drawn back and up towards his ears, muscles bunching. His arms followed, caught in a severe cramp, his fingers forced into tight fists.

Athos’ body was hard as stone, but he was still awake and acutely aware of his situation. His eyes were staring back at the wall to the armoury now, watching the dance of the shadows the candle cast onto it, though his mind struggled to process the image.

He could not see his friends any more, pain erasing all other thoughts.

It could have happened in a heartbeat or an hour, but the lightening had touched every last part of his body. All of his thoughts were focussed on the muscles that were tensed to bursting, pulling his body into painful contortion. His back was bent as well, his weight resting on shoulders and buttocks. His legs were straight against the rough fabric of Tréville’s blanket.

He was no stranger to pain, none of them were. As musketeers they were employed on dangerous missions and fought on the front lines of many battles. It was their duty to shed blood for king and country. Athos had taken bullets and blades, had been beaten and whipped, and injured in most ways imaginable, but it all paled in comparison.

This was the worst pain of his life.

His stomach clenched and Athos wished he could throw up, could do something to combat that feeling. The thought flitted across his brain without much impact. He had no power over his stomach, it did what it would and it would not alleviate the nausea. He was not in command here; he could not even make this basest of decisions.

He couldn’t move to get away from the pain, to try and relieve himself of this agony. He couldn’t close his eyes and escape into his mind, the place that usually held torment so much worse than reality.

His own body held him hostage.

He gave in then, letting the violent spasms shake him. The fist of some invisible giant seemed to bend his neck further and further backwards until he was sure his spine would snap. The lightening was everywhere, fire, pain in every fibre of every muscle. He was burning alive.

He was usually able to focus on something else, masking his pain with honour and duty and manners. He hardly ever faltered, his mask slipping very rarely indeed. There was always greater torment in his mind to annihilate that in his body. Others had tried to torture him over the years and found him quite unresponsive. None had been as successful as his own mind in causing him anguish.

Not until tetanus struck.

It took an age for Athos to notice anything other than the pain. First, he realised that he was unable to get as much air as he needed, as his lungs could not fully inflate against the rigidity of his chest. He forced down the natural panic that thought triggered and concentrated on evening out his breathing, slowly transitioning from hurried gasps to something resembling a rhythm.

Tremors raced through his body. It was a most uncomfortable sensation, especially since his muscles were still screaming with the pain of being contracted so tightly. But he took it as a positive sign — if he was shaking, the tension must be easing. After a while, his eyelids slipped shut, letting him hide in merciful darkness away from the candlelight was torturing him.

His limbs were still rigid, but the spasm in his back was subsiding, his spine uncurling a little, allowing him to drop back to the mattress. Eventually, his jaw slackened slightly, his teeth no longer grinding together. Mercifully, he felt his lips close.

He lay there for a while, trying in vain to distract himself from the pain by focussing on his breathing. He was usually able to calm himself. Discipline was his one asset.

At some point, he became aware of soft voices. Aramis and Porthos were still there. They were whispering, and even though he could not make out any of their words, he was touched by their loyalty. They had stayed; they had witnessed all of this. With a great effort, Athos opened his eyes again.

“Hullo there, you with us again?” Porthos asked softly, smiling at him. He was and had been with them that whole time, but Athos saw no reason to tell his friend that he had been conscious throughout the whole ordeal. He was resurfacing from that sea of intense pain now. He was exhausted.

In lieu of an answer, Athos slowly blinked his eyes, before looking back at Porthos.

“Good,” his friend said, grinning more broadly. “Was a bit worried for you there.”

Athos let his eyes fall shut again, too spent to maintain the effort of keeping them open. There was no hope for sleep though. His entire body was still on edge, his muscles hard even now that the cramp had passed. He forced his eyes open again when Porthos continued.

“You got a right thrashing there, _mon cher._ I know you don’t like to be touched, but think you can bear just a little? Swear I’ll be careful.”

Athos slowly blinked his eyes again in confirmation. He was not keen on the idea, but he was loath to worry his friends further. Porthos lifted his hand to within Athos’ field of vision.

“I’ll just touch your hand and we’ll see how that goes, right?”

Athos involuntarily held his breath when Porthos’ hand dipped to where his left lay clenched on the bed. He fully expected a new wave of pain to crush him at the sensation and would have pulled away if he had the strength.

Porthos was so gentle.

Those who did not know Porthos often assumed him to be rough and violent. Those who had seen him fight knew him to possess great strength. Only a very few were privy to the kind and caring nature behind the rough exterior.

At first, only one finger came to rest upon Athos’ knuckles, the touch so soft even his over-excitable muscles did not twitch. Athos closed his eyes again, but the image of Porthos’ serene smile stayed with him. He concentrated all his feeling on that single point of contact between them, the slight pressure of Porthos’ thumb the only thing he allowed himself to register. Not the pain, not the exhaustion, not the awareness of his quickly approaching death, nor the knowledge of the dreadful manner in which it would occur. He only focussed on that single finger.

Athos could not have told how long they sat like this, but eventually Porthos began to very slowly worm his fingers between Athos’ hand and the bed. He did it so slowly, so carefully, that the increased touch never became uncomfortable.

Later, Porthos began to brush his thumb across the back of Athos’ hand in long, deliberate strokes. The feeling was so intense it occupied Athos’ whole mind at first; the slow movement, the warmth of his friend’s presence, it became all-encompassing.

Porthos settled into a steady rhythm and eventually Athos began to relax, to even enjoy the contact between them. Somewhere in the background he could hear Aramis move across the room very quietly. Earlier, the wave of pain had overwhelmed him and swept him away. Now he felt like he was clinging to a rock, a tenuous hold, but a hold nonetheless.

He opened his eyes again when he heard the soft rustle of clothes next to the bed. Aramis was standing next to Porthos now. He was smiling, but his eyes were tired and wary, clearly visible even in the flickering candlelight.

“You look exhausted, _mon cher,_ ” Aramis said and grimaced. Athos wanted to apologise for what they had seen, but could not find the strength to form the words.

“It’s alright,” Porthos reassured him, continuing the soft stroking. “It’s gone now.”

“I would like you to drink something,” Aramis said and Athos noticed that he was carrying a cup. “Some warm water and a few herbs... they should help you sleep and may loosen your muscles a little.”

_Drinking._

Drinking sounded impossibly difficult to Athos. He would have to raise his head, open his mouth and swallow the drink. What might seem a simple task for an infant was a daunting obstacle to him. _When you can no longer make him take food and drink, death will be imminent._ The physician’s words came back to him unbidden. Maybe this was the end. Not killed by the drink, but by a lack thereof. The irony was not lost on him.

“I’ll help you,” Porthos said, keeping that grounding touch on Athos’ hand. “We’ll do it together.”

Athos raised his eyes to look at them, his friends, kneeling by his bedside. Helping him, doing it together. They were still here.

_You can’t just give up like we don’t matter at all._

Athos forced his eyes wide open and saw the fear cloud their faces. They needn’t have worried. He was only trying to gather his strength. His hand twitched in Porthos’ and he could hear his friend shush him gently. Athos battled with a tongue that felt large and unwieldy in his parched mouth. His breath came in short, hard gasps, but eventually he managed to grind out a word.

“D’Artagnan.”

“Don’t worry about him now,” Aramis said, his brow furrowed. “He’ll be fine.”

“Go... after... him,” Athos said with great effort. D’Artagnan was not here and it had been his words that sent him running. He felt useless for not being able to follow the boy himself.

“You are a bit more important just now,” Aramis said.

“He knows how to take care of himself,” Porthos added.

Athos knew that, he knew d’Artagnan was more than capable of walking around the city at night. He just wished they were all here, all three of his friends. D’Artagnan had already become an integral part of their circle, though he had arrived in Paris less than a year ago.

“He’ll be back once he’s cooled down a bit,” Porthos said. “He’ll come crawling back in the morning. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“Let’s get you through the night first,” Aramis murmured.

They warned him of every touch and that made it bearable for him. They were gentle, so very gentle, manoeuvring him into a position to drink, Porthos supporting his head while Aramis tipped the cup against his lips. Athos’ jaw quivered from the effort it took to hold the water in his mouth, but the warm liquid was thoroughly welcome, soothing the pain instantly and alleviating the dryness. Swallowing proved difficult, his stiff muscles protesting the movement. Soon water was dripping down his chin, gently wiped away by Aramis, but Athos managed to swallow most of it. Aramis smiled at him.

Death was not yet imminent.

He did not feel entirely refreshed, but certainly better than he had by the time Porthos eased him back down onto the bed, and then Aramis wiped his brow with a wet cloth, both of them so gentle with him. Athos still marvelled at them being here.

“We’ll need to clean you up a bit,” Aramis said and Athos averted his eyes when he realised what that entailed. They shouldn’t have to do this.

It was Porthos, always practical and steadfast, who stripped him, cleaned his body of the aftermath of the spasm, and dressed him in a fresh set of clothes. Aramis stripped the bed —Tréville’s bed— and deposited the soiled linens on the ground. Both of them moved efficiently, tending to their unusual duties with the same accuracy they displayed in combat, but gently, ever so gently.

There hadn’t been many gentle people in his life. He had learned early to remember his station. A _comte_ did not cry, a _comte_ did not show emotion, and a _comte_ certainly didn’t crave a mother’s touch. Later there had been women, of course, but what gentleness they displayed had been reserved for his purse. Anne had been gentle. He had lost himself in her touch and her care, had loved her. And they all knew where that had lead.

It had taken two hardened soldiers to show him true gentleness.

They were his friends and he loved them dearly, the two of them, as well as d’Artagnan who had barged into their lives and into their hearts with a rapier in his hand and the threat of death on his lips. He reminded Athos of himself.

He had come to Paris to die; D’Artagnan had come to Paris to kill. Revenge, honour, they all seemed such abstract concepts to Athos now. What was real was the love his friends showed him.

Athos closed his eyes again, unable to watch Porthos work to restore what little dignity he had left. There was nothing he could have done to prevent this; he knew Aramis would tell him as much. It was the illness that had taken charge of his body, making his body bow to its wishes. He knew he did not have the choice to disobey, but watching Porthos wipe away the evidence of his weakness was more than he could bear.

Porthos continued to narrate each of his touches in a soft voice. Athos’ muscles still quivered, but he did not go into spasm. Everything was too much, the light of the candles, the soft splash of the water as Aramis refilled the basin on the nightstand, the touch of the cloth on his skin, but he knew he was safe with them.

Athos had never expected to find himself so reluctant to die again. The life he had wanted to live had ended abruptly all those years ago. He had not expected to find a new one, least of all one that he wanted to hold onto so desperately.

No matter how much he clung to it, it sounded like he was fighting a losing battle. It had certainly felt like it when he was caught in the tetanic spasm, his own body out to kill him.

He needed to put his affairs in order.

Aramis and Porthos drew up chairs and seemed ready to settle in for a night’s watch at his bedside. They too must be exhausted.

“On _Rue de Condé_ ,” Athos said, his voice reasonably steady. “Ask for Antoine Dreumont, the _notaire_.”

“What would we want with a _notaire_?” Porthos asked. Athos looked at him and was glad. As little as he cared for the station he had been born into, at least it would be able to do some good for his friends.

“I leave... no heir,” Athos said quietly. Aramis cleared his throat.

“Monsieur Dreumont... holds my... testament,” Athos continued.

“You are not going to–“ Porthos started, but Athos kept talking. He had little strength and did not know when the next spasm would take him. The last spasm, quite possibly.

“You will be... taken care of,” Athos finished. He had no wish to explain himself any further, knowing they would protest his decisions. Tréville knew and would see to it that his last will was executed.

“We have no use for your money,” Aramis said, putting a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “Not without you to watch us squander it on women and wine.”

“We want you to take care of us,” Porthos added, once again taking Athos’ hand into his own. “Not some piece of paper.”

“I cannot make... that promise,” Athos said, trying to force his lips into a smile. He would do anything for them, anything within his power, but he was not sure that his life was his to give any more.

“You are not going to die,” Porthos said with conviction. In the flickering light of the candle, Athos could clearly see the tears streaming from his eyes. “Stop saying your adieus. You survived that spasm. We aren’t going to let this kill you.”

Athos wanted to comfort him, but could not bring himself to nurture false hopes.

“How long?” he asked, turning his eyes onto Aramis. The fingers on his shoulder tightened slightly and he could see Aramis swallow heavily.

“Some weeks,” he answered. “Two with some luck, three, four maybe, there are... few accounts.”

Few accounts of how long tetanus would take to kill him; few accounts of how long he would make his friends suffer only to console them with some worthless coin at the end.

“The spasms?” Athos asked, knowing that Aramis had used the afternoon to read up on this treacherous disease.

“Increasing in severity and frequency,” Aramis answered. There were no tears in his voice, kept carefully free of emotion.

“Death?” Athos asked.

“Occurs if the constrictions of the chest stop the heart or interrupt breathing,” Aramis answered, his tone that of a soldier reporting to his superior.

“Cure?” Athos asked.

Aramis’ breath hitched.

“Hot baths may bring some relief, valerian for...”

“Cure?” Athos asked again hoping to make his soft whisper sound sharp.

Aramis sighed and ran his free hand through his hair before he answered.

“None.”

“Thank you, Aramis,” Athos said. He appreciated his honesty. While demanding it had hurt his friend, he knew that the truth had to be spoken to be accepted. Lies would only hurt them further.

Porthos was weeping openly. Aramis put a hand on his knee. They sat in silence for several minutes.

“Tell d’Artagnan...” Athos said.

“ _Peste!_ We’ll tell him nothing,” Porthos interrupted, struggling to control the volume of his voice. “You are going to live, Athos!”

“Porthos,” Aramis said. “We can only pray for a miracle.”

“We are musketeers,” Porthos responded, drawing in a deep breath. “We don’t just pray, we work for our miracles.”

“There is little hope...”

“There is some,” Porthos insisted. “Not all knowledge is in your books.”

“Porthos, we are not giving up, but we have to be realistic...”

“It _is_ realistic. When I was in the infantry... you get knocked about a bit...” Porthos started, then stopped himself to clear his throat.

 _You get used as cannon fodder in the infantry_ would have been more accurate. Foot soldiers always encountered the heaviest casualties and bore the brunt of battle.

“It happened sometimes, after a battle. When men were wounded, sometimes they’d get... _this_... The surgeon told us it meant death, and it did, but not for all. I met a man who survived it once. He was fine. If an infantryman on the battlefield can survive...” Porthos could not suppress a sob any longer. “You are strong, Athos, you are going to live.”

Porthos’ thumb started to rub slow circles on Athos’ hand once more. Aramis let go of Athos and pulled Porthos into a rough embrace

“And we’ll be there every step of the way,” Aramis said, his voice wavering.

Porthos leaned his head against his friend’s shoulder, his heavy breathing the only indication of the fight with his emotions.

“You are not going to die,” he reiterated, like a prayer that would reach fulfilment with sufficient repetition. “Not like this, Athos.”

Athos did not mind. The Comte de la Fère, who might have cared about the manner of his death, had died many years ago. Athos the musketeer did not mind. He had enlisted with the musketeers clutching some last shred of dignity and the hope of a swift death for king and country. It was the natural order of things; some were born high and fell far. If he could salvage some last remnant of duty and honour, it was more than he deserved.

He had cheated death so many times over the years, had survived because of his skill or that of his comrades, because of the loyalty of his friend, the skill of a medic, or maybe merely because of the cruel whims of a deity who delighted in his downfall. The manner of his death might seem cruel, but he had accepted long ago that he did not deserve a glorious death on the battlefield. No matter how many charges he led, death did not find him.

He did not mind that death had caught up with him at last. He had no wish to die any more, but he had little reason to complain about the time he had been given. It had been borrowed time, but that borrowed time had been the happiest he had ever known.

For the sake of his friends, Athos did mind.

He watched them now, the two men embracing at his bedside, united in their pain. The candles were burning low, darkness settling over the captain’s chambers. Porthos’ head was still nestled against Aramis; Aramis’ arm was drawn tightly across Porthos’ shoulders. Porthos’ thumb was still tracing small circles across the back of Athos’ hand, keeping that connection between them alive.

Athos knew he would not face his end alone. His thoughts kept circling around them. The thought of their friendship was the only thing strong enough to break through the haze of pain.

_We’ll do it together._

With that in mind, he did not protest when Porthos spoon-fed him a bowl of soup. It took some effort to open his mouth wide enough and his back did not take kindly to being sat up, but it worked. His throat ached, but Athos swallowed again and again until the small bowl was drained.

The look upon their faces was worth the pain.

They smiled at him and he knew they were all thinking about the physician’s words. As long as he was eating, there was some hope for him. Porthos in particular was glowing with pride, a look usually reserved for d’Artagnan’s successes in combat.

Aramis had prepared another herbal draught for him and even though it tasted abysmally and had no noticeable effect, Athos took it gladly. Aramis might claim that he knew nothing of the illness, and that not even his books offered much insight into the successful treatment of tetanus, but Athos knew that whatever Aramis gave him came from a place of love. At the very least it would do him no more harm.

“There’s a good boy,” Aramis praised when Athos had drained the cup. He sometimes treated them like his young nephews when they were injured. Under ordinary circumstances, the infantilising treatment would have exasperated Athos, but now he relished it.

“Let’s try and get some sleep,” Porthos said with a yawn as he gently lowered Athos back down onto the pillow. “Been a long day.”

Athos’ eyes had slipped shut a while ago. He was weary to the bone. The previous morning seemed an age away.

He slept fitfully that night. His exhaustion won out over the pain, but the poison in his body would not let him sleep for long. He woke frequently, and whenever he did, his muscles were cramping. Nothing too severe, nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing compared to earlier, but it still hurt dreadfully.

Athos just wanted to sleep.

The first time he woke, his breath hitched with the sudden onslaught of pain. His body was fighting him and all he could do was lie there and take the beating. Then his eyes fell upon hands holding a rosary.

“Hey handsome,” Aramis said. Athos heard soft snores in the background indicating that Porthos was there as well. Sleep claimed him before he could make a reply.

The second time he woke, it was Porthos on the chair next to the bed. He gently wiped Athos’ brow with a wet cloth. The cool touch was a welcome counterpoint to the fire racing through his muscles.

They were still here.

Every time Athos fell asleep, it was with thoughts of friendship and family. Every time he woke, it was to the sight of one of them sitting beside him. He was not alone in this fight. His brothers had his back.

They were smiling whenever he woke and slowly their optimism seeped into Athos. They were in this together, inseparable as always, and when they were together they were all but unbeatable.

_And we’ll be there every step of the way._

He did not know for how long he slept, or how often he woke, but Aramis and Porthos trading places in their night watch seemed to indicate the passage of time. The cramps were getting less severe, not lasting as long. He was gaining strength, only a little, but enough to keep him going, to make him not dread the next time he woke, but appreciate the fact that he got to sleep and recover in between.

When he woke once more, the light in the room had changed. Aramis was sitting next to him once more. Seeing Athos open his eyes, he slipped the rosary into his pocket and smiled brightly.

“Good morning, _mon cher_ ,” Aramis said.

“Morning?” Athos asked in a hoarse whisper.

“And you know what that means,” Aramis said, very gently brushing Athos’ hair from his forehead. “Means you made it through the night.”

They had nursed him through the first night.

They always said the first night after an injury was the crucial one. Get them through the first night and the wounded had some chance of recovery. Here he was, waking to a new dawn, the soft sunlight just about visible through the cracks in the heavy wooden shutters.

A mere day ago, he had been going through his sword routine before walking to the garrison, a strong man in his prime. Now he was content to merely be. He was still here and they were still here, witnessing him at his lowest and nursing him through it.

“I’m sorry,” Athos said.

“No Athos... you are the answer to my prayers,” Aramis told him, brushing a hand across his hair affectionately. “And it’s a beautiful morning.”

For a moment Athos believed him. As Aramis busied himself with the window, Athos was eager to see that new day that lay beyond. Paris was waking around them and Athos was waking to a dawn he had doubted he would live to see. When Aramis threw open the shutters and golden sunlight flooded the room, he told Athos that it was a beautiful day that had been gifted to him. And for a moment Athos believed him.

Then the lightening struck him once more.

As the pain spread from his eyes, the inexorable wave overpowering him once more, Athos felt panic rise in his chest. He knew what was coming and it terrified him. It was easier to go into battle the first time when you had no notion of the horrors that awaited you. It was easier when it was only hearsay.

But Athos knew.

All his skill, all his experience amounted to nothing here. He felt as if he were a piece of driftwood, caught in the strong current and thrown upon the sharp rocks of an unforgiving shore by wave upon wave of pain. He was powerless. He had nothing left to give, his defences were down and he could do nothing but let himself be tossed into that abyss once more.

There was so much pain.

_You can’t just give up like we don’t matter at all._

The invisible giant squeezed his body into gruesome contortions and there was nothing he could do but let it happen. As his body arched off the bed once more it was all he could do not to scream.

He was going to be strong for them.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations
> 
> A short note on tetanus: Symptoms, treatment and prognosis are based on a thorough review of medical literature through the ages. Tetanus is a very complex disease that is still not fully understood and once symptoms occur is still not curable. However, it is 100% vaccine preventable, which currently makes it a rare disease in most developed countries. Tetanus remains a very potent killer in the developing world where vaccine availability is a problem.
> 
> I have fortunately never seen a tetanus case in a human, only in lambs, so what I’m writing about is not based on any personal experience. My descriptions are based on pictures and videos (I would not encourage you to google them), as well as a pile of medical research papers. For this particular topic my regular university library wasn’t quite large enough to satisfy my need for research. This fic was made possible with the kind assistance of the medical and medical history divisions of the British Library in London.
> 
> While I strive for accuracy, please be aware that this remains a work of historical fiction. I’m not a medical professional and while I make my fics as realistic as possible and definitely keep them within their time setting, I’m also trying to make them good stories.
> 
> In the 17th century, they had very limited options indeed with this particular disease, so I’m not belittling Aramis’ expertise in the least. There is evidence in literature that people struggled fruitlessly for millennia to treat tetanus or to at least alleviate the suffering. The best estimate I could find for the 17th century was a 90% fatality rate for generalised tetanus (which is what Athos is suffering from). Modern intensive care units enable doctors to administer adequate pain relief and sedation, as well as using artificial respiration and nutrition to keep patients alive. Unfortunately, the same isn’t true for 17th century France.
> 
> Tetanus is caused by a bacterium that naturally occurs in the soil around the world and can enter the body through the tiniest wound. The official data from the UK National Health Service states that about 1 in 7 to 1 in 10 tetanus cases in the country is fatal. Learning more about it doesn’t really make you very confident. Last summer, quite early on in my research for this fic, I went to the doctor’s and got myself a tetanus booster shot. Tetanus is a dreadful disease. In the words of my oldest source for this fic, straight from the 1st century: “An inhuman calamity!”
> 
>  
> 
> Le devoir d’excellence — “Devoted to Excellence” is the motto of the Franco-German Brigade, a bi-national military cooperation established in 1989 as part of the Eurocorps, an intergovernmental military corps stationed in Strasbourg, Alsace, France. I’m from down that way originally, so they are special to me.
> 
> Rue de Condé — Road in the 6th arrondissement of Paris
> 
> Notaire — “Notary”
> 
> Peste — "plague" (7th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 9 times), fun fact for those who have made it all the way to the end: the plague was present in Paris from 1622 to 1632, the last plague epidemic in Paris was not until 1668. Especially for somebody with Porthos' background, the plague was a very real threat.


	4. Faire face  (Rise up)

 

Athos was still breathing, and for now that was enough. Or at least Aramis tried to tell himself that. The prayers for thanks would not come; the desperate pleading for mercy now subsided to leave nothing but silence.

Athos was still breathing, but everything else had gone to hell though.

Athos was stiff as a board. At least he was lying flat on his back now — Aramis tried to banish the image of his friend arching off the bed like a tightly strung bow from his mind. It was painful to even remember the torment; he did not dare imagine the agony it had caused Athos. The spasm had subsided after minutes —although it had felt much longer — but Athos still lay unmoving and his muscles were still bunched in tight contraction. His entire body seemed hard.

Athos was a hard man. He usually carried pain silently, stoically doing his duty with little regard for his own comfort. He did not ignore injuries if they had any chance of hampering him; as dutiful with reporting them and having them seen to as with everything else he did. However, once it was confirmed that there was no danger or that there was nothing more to be done, Athos carried on without complaint. More than once Athos had quietly sat through Aramis suturing a major wound without as much as gasping for breath.

The look in Athos' eyes now haunted him all the more because of it.

It had been a beautiful morning. The sun was shining and despite the slight chill in the air, it had promised to be a wonderful day. More importantly, the latter part of the night had been relatively calm, with Athos being granted an hour or more between spasms, allowing him to sleep relatively soundly. Upon waking, Athos had even spoken to him and appeared well rested.

Aramis had spent hours in prayer and contemplation, asking the Lord to bestow his strength and mercy upon Athos. He himself had received a sense of peace and the reassurance that life was still worth living, that it had so much to offer. Athos might not be able to see its beauty right now, but Aramis loved life with a passion.

In the hour before dawn, as Athos slept peacefully, Aramis had vowed to share that love, to infect his dear friend with it. There was so much to be loved about life and he would not watch Athos close himself off to it, not now when he needed it most. He would show him that he was loved and he would show him that that love made life worth living.

That love was stronger than tetanus.

A fiery sunrise had heralded a beautiful morning. Aramis had breathed the fresh air deeply as he pushed open the window. The sunlight was soft and golden, flooding into the room and spreading happiness in its path. Aramis had delighted in God's creation and the small marvels that He granted them every day. Even when the previous night had seen such pain and despair, the new morning brought new hope and a deep satisfaction that Aramis was only too eager to share.

Porthos' cry had brought him back to their bitter reality, a reality that seemed to consist only of pain. He had turned on his heel and looked straight into Athos' eyes.

Athos was seldom surprised or shocked; he was always composed, rarely showing emotion on his face. When Aramis turned, Athos' eyes were wide and full of abject terror. Fear seemed to radiate from him.

Aramis could not blame him.

It had been agony, pure and utter agony. And they had been powerless to bring Athos any relief. They stood there and watched him in his torture. Athos' eyes only left Aramis when his spine had arched so far backwards that he was yet again left to stare at the wall behind. When his spine uncurled, his glance returned and the fear had turned to horror.

So when Athos' eyes finally closed, Aramis found he was glad. Finally, Athos was granted some reprieve, his abused body falling into unconsciousness.

That conviction lasted for only a few moments.

"He's still awake," Porthos whispered. "Listen."

Athos' breathing had settled into a rhythm, a very regular and tightly controlled rhythm that they knew all too well. This was Athos evening out his breathing the way he always did when pain or emotion threatened to overcome him. He had tried to teach Aramis, years ago when the memory of Savoy had still loomed large. In the end, Aramis had found other ways to master his own demons, but it had worked for Athos. There he was now, mastering the demons of tetanus when his tortured body seemed unable to grant him the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

Aramis leaned backwards slightly until his head rested against Porthos' shoulder. Porthos draped his arm around him, his warmth a small comfort. They watched and listened for a few minutes that felt like an age with all the agony they held.

"Do you think I can touch him?" Porthos asked.

"Don't!" Aramis hissed, then softened his voice when Porthos squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. "He's too tense, it will only agitate him."

"Later," Porthos said. "I can try later."

The pain was obvious in his voice. Porthos always did something; he never took no for an answer. Every time Aramis had sent him away in the aftermath of Savoy, he had come back; every time Athos had closed himself off in reminiscence of his troublesome past, Porthos had coaxed him into opening up again.

They stood in silence and watched their friend in his torment. The rigidity in Athos' muscles did not seem to decrease in the slightest. His breathing, as carefully controlled as it was, hitched occasionally. Each time, Aramis anxiously waited for the next intake of air.

"How long can anyone suffer like this?" Aramis asked.

Porthos shushed him, his breath hot against Aramis' ear.

"He is strong," he whispered.

Aramis let himself relax into the embrace for a moment, daring to believe that Athos' strength would truly carry him through. The hope was fleeting. There was a loud noise outside and they watched a shudder pass through Athos, tears running down his face.

"I wish there was something I could do," Aramis said. "How can we just..."

"There's nothing?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shook his head, not wanting to give voice to his reply.

"Some wine to take the edge off," Porthos suggested.

Aramis sighed.

"I'm afraid his heart would give out before we could get enough wine into him," he answered. "It's not very good pain relief, especially not with Athos."

"Some ice maybe," Porthos proposed. "It's good for injuries..."

"Might help with the fever," Aramis allowed. "But it's no use for tight muscles. And unless the garrison has a deep cellar I know nothing about or you can petition the Lord to make the Seine freeze over, I don't think we'd get enough of it anyways."

"Aren't there any medicines to take the pain away?"

"None that I know of, not for that amount of pain."

"What use are all your books and those snooty doctors if they can't even take away the pain?" Porthos asked.

Aramis sighed.

"It's like the physician said," he answered. "Pain is God-given and who are we to overrule his judgement on how much pain a man deserves..."

"Rubbish."

"Sacrilege," Aramis reminded him more out of obligation than any real ire.

"Athos doesn't deserve this," Porthos insisted and there was no way Aramis could deny that. Nobody deserved this, least of all a man as good and noble as Athos.

"I wish there was a way to give him the rest he deserves," Aramis said. "My herbs had no effect at all."

Porthos drew in a breath as if to contradict him, but then released it slowly. They both knew it was the truth.

They watched Athos, not daring to even approach the bed. His muscles remained tightly clenched, his eyes closed. He was suffering and they were doing nothing.

"There is one thing," Aramis said eventually. "Though I have never used it. It's called Laudanum or...

"Tincture of opium," Porthos said. "I've heard of it. Before, you know, before I joined the infantry."

"It's said to be powerful."

"It's said to be deadly."

"The Turks eat it, I've read," said Aramis, leaning back against Porthos. "And I would like to give him relief if I can."

"I know you would," Porthos said soothingly, rubbing gentle circles on Aramis' shoulder.

"I don't even know where to find it."

"I do," Porthos said with a sigh. "Or at least I know people who do."

"He wouldn't want you to get yourself into trouble."

Porthos huffed out a breath in something that could almost qualify as a laugh.

"I have been in trouble ever since I met you lot."

It was almost too much to hope for.

"Are you sure?" Aramis asked.

He felt Porthos shift uneasily behind him and for the space of a few heartbeats he thought he might refuse.

"For Athos," Porthos said softly.

Aramis could not claim to truly understand Porthos' past or the ties that still bound him to the slums of Paris, but he knew that every excursion back into his previous life was wrought with emotional turmoil and potential danger.

Before he could question Porthos' resolve or his own conviction that laudanum might help, there was a sharp knock at the door. They both stared at Athos in fearful anticipation.

_Lord, grant him mercy._

A violent shiver passed through Athos, making him thrash on the narrow bed, but no spasm followed. Maybe even his hostile body was finally exhausted.

While Aramis looked at his friend, wishing he could take his pain upon himself, Porthos had opened the door, ready to round on whoever dared to intrude. Aramis only dragged his eyes away from Athos when he heard Tréville's voice.

"Speak softly, captain," Porthos warned urgently, closing the door behind him.

"Is he asleep?" Tréville asked, his voice low now.

"No such luck, captain," Aramis answered and stepped aside, allowing their captain to see Athos.

Tréville sucked in a sharp breath and visibly flinched when he laid eyes upon his soldier.

" _Ventre-saint-gris_ ," he cursed, softly but with gusto. He made to move towards the bed, but Porthos stopped him.

"He cannot bear to be touched at the moment," he said, a low growl of warning.

"Of course," Tréville said, ignoring Porthos' insubordination, and sat heavily on the chair by the bedside. Aramis and Porthos stood on either side of him, surveying the damage done to their friend.

Athos' eyes and lips had closed, but his face was still caught in a grimace of pain, and his body remained stiff. Sweat glistened on his brow, and with his shirt in disarray and the blanket fallen to the side, he was barely decent. Athos would have been mortified to be presented to his captain in this condition. Athos probably _was_ mortified.

" _Diable!_ How did he come to be in such a state?" Tréville asked, reaching out his hands, but clutched his own knees instead.

"He suffered two severe tetanic spasms," Aramis said, clipping his words as if he was reporting on a mission. He found comfort in the familiar style. "A number of smaller ones during the night. They are triggered by noise and light. Each causes painful contortions. He's been in this state since the last one, a half hour ago."

Half an hour of suffering and they had done nothing.

Tréville rubbed a hand across his beard before he answered. He sounded more tired than the early hour warranted.

"How do we proceed?" he asked, looking at Aramis.

For a commanding officer, Tréville gave them great freedom and valued their input very much. Aramis usually appreciated that, but now he would have liked a clear order rather than a question.

"I don't know," he admitted. He didn't need Tréville's questioning glance to know that his answer was woefully inadequate.

"I understand there is no cure," Tréville said.

"None," Aramis confirmed.

"You have consulted Paré?" Tréville asked, gesturing towards his bookcase in the corner.

"Yes, captain. He recommends rest without agitation and hot baths for relaxation if possible. However, he writes that the outcome in most cases is..." Aramis paused, conscious that Athos was, in all likelihood, listening. "...is unfavourable."

"Athos is not most cases," Porthos muttered under his breath.

"Agreed," Tréville said and Aramis watched him swallow heavily as he looked back at Athos. "I know you're doing everything to support him. Be assured of my assistance as well."

"Your rooms..."

"Are at your disposal. I will not have him moved in this state. Serge and Jacques are to see to your needs above all else. I shall give the order."

A shout echoed across the courtyard. The noise made Athos shudder.

"Complete silence in the garrison," Tréville said. "I will not have anyone hurt Athos further."

"Thank you, captain."

The shivers travelled through Athos' body and made him moan in pain.

 _"Sangdieu!_ Is there nothing to be done for the unfortunate man?" Tréville asked, as agitated as a man could be in a whisper.

"My usual droughts had no effect and the physician offered no alternatives," Aramis said. "I dare not give him that much alcohol."

Tréville nodded his understanding. Aramis often wondered just how much he knew of Athos' troubles.

"Aramis has an idea," Porthos prompted. Aramis glared at him as Tréville looked up with renewed hope in his eyes.

"I have heard of a remedy from the orient, one that has been used to free men from pain," Aramis said cautiously.

"Tears of the poppy," Tréville said to Aramis' astonishment. "I once served with a surgeon who used it to great effect. It is a rare commodity these days."

"Porthos thinks he can procure it."

Tréville stared at Porthos for several long moments, face unreadable. Aramis almost expected him to forbid Porthos to go after the laudanum. Then Tréville looked back at Athos, shook his head slowly and got up.

"Do what you must," he said heavily, then removed a well-filled purse from his belt and held it out to Porthos. "Bring Athos some relief if you can."

He strode briskly towards the door, then stopped and took a deep breath before opening it, visibly bracing himself. Not even the captain was unaffected by Athos' plight.

Aramis paced back and forth across the room before standing behind Treville's desk, putting his hands on the polished wood and trying to think while staring at the scattered maps and half-finished letters.

 _How do we proceed?_ He wished he knew.

Porthos gingerly put the captain's coin purse onto the desk and extracted several silver francs from it, storing them in various places in his clothing.

"No need to tempt anyone," he said, patting his pockets. "I should probably go. The sooner we get the stuff, the sooner we can help Athos."

Aramis stiffened. _Don't go,_ he wanted to shout, _don't leave me alone with him._

He knew Porthos was right, of course he was. He should go now and give them the means to alleviate Athos' suffering. It was important, but something in Aramis' mind disagreed. Some insistent voice reminded him that he would be alone with Athos, that he would be the only one present if he died, that he would once again be the only survivor, reporting to Tréville that yet again a friend had died on his watch. He could not bear to be that person again.

One of Porthos' large hands covered his where his fingers had curled into tight claws gripping the edge of the table. He looked up. Porthos was smiling.

"Let's clean him up a bit first, make him presentable, you know," he said. "Won't find anybody up and ready for business at this time of day."

Aramis went and retrieved a bowl of warm water from the kitchen. The early risers were assembled already and looked at him expecting an explanation. Aramis could not oblige their unspoken request, feeling out of place among them. Once again, he was more of a ghost than a comrade to them.

When he returned to Tréville's rooms, Porthos was already bent low over the bed. He was as gentle as ever, saying soft, reassuring words to Athos as he undressed him. It was difficult work, as Athos' muscles were still inflexible, the limbs barely bending under Porthos' touch.

Athos' eyes were open, the haunted look replaced by a profound sadness that seemed more familiar to Aramis. Porthos kept up a litany of encouragements and comforts as he worked.

Aramis felt like he was intruding upon a private moment between the two of them. There was such intimacy in Porthos' words and in his touch; Aramis could never hope to match that. He had words for flirtation and light-hearted banter, but not for this.

He was about to retreat into a corner when Porthos handed him a wet rag, gesturing towards Athos' face.

"Give me a hand here, will you? He'll want to look a bit less of a scoundrel."

Aramis wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that he was inadequate for such a task, but Porthos cut off any complaints.

"Say a little prayer. You know I never remember much of mine," he encouraged.

Aramis had no words of his own, none that would be a comfort in this situation, but he did recall a psalm that seemed strangely fitting. He recited it while he wiped Athos' face and his neck. There was a peace and quiet in those old words that made it all more bearable, even if only a little.

_"Praise the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy."_

He had memorised these verses long ago and had recited them to Athos on many occasions. Never had they felt as fitting as today. The Lord was forgiving; He would redeem Athos in the end and not punish him endlessly. There would be forgiveness, redemption, benefits, and even healing in the end.

He repeated the psalm as he washed Athos' pale face and gently brushed his hair from his forehead. He hoped Athos would forgive him his religiosity. It felt like a shelter to Aramis, a little warmth in this harsh reality.

 _Steadfast love and mercy_. Maybe they could give him that if nothing else. Athos was loved, much more so than he realised. They all loved him as a brother. It wasn't much, but for now it was all they had to offer. With God's aid it might just be enough.

Right on cue, the door opened by a fraction and a very sheepish looking d'Artagnan poked his head into the room. Steadfast love it was, then.

"Good morning, I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave, I just couldn't— I wanted to be here, Athos, I'm sorry, I'm back now," he said in a rushed whisper. The words seemed to tumble out of his mouth with very little interference from his brain. He stared at them more wide-eyed than looking into a dim room warranted.

Aramis was shielding Athos' face with his body, not moving from where he was crouched next to his friend. It was a feeble attempt to spare Athos' dignity. D'Artagnan would see soon enough; he'd ask for information and Aramis would give him that. Very soon, they would all know just how desperately ill Athos really was. But for one more moment, Aramis could shield them both.

Porthos drew the blanket up over Athos' body before walking to the door and dragging d'Artagnan in by the scruff of his neck. He gave the boy a one-armed hug that became somewhat awkward and lopsided as d'Artagnan was carrying a large wooden tray full of food and drink. Porthos relieved him of it and set it down onto Tréville's desk, pushing aside the inkwell.

They would have to tidy the desk. If anything fell... Aramis did not want to imagine what the clatter would do to Athos. And the door... the sun had not moved to that side of the building yet, but once it did opening the door would expose Athos to yet more pain. Maybe they could put blankets in front of the door to keep the light from getting in. They had to be careful.

D'Artagnan pulled himself up to his full height and Aramis rose to his feet. He was still mindful of keeping his body between the boy and Athos. He wasn't sure which one he was protecting.

"I apologise for my behaviour," d'Artagnan said, a lot more collected now. "It was unacceptable and cowardly to run off like that. I was not raised to abandon a friend in need and I know you would never do something like that. I have failed you — and Athos."

He sounded like he had rehearsed the words over and over again during the night. Looking at him more closely, Aramis saw that the boy had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was mussed as if he had run his hand through it repeatedly.

Now to find the words to reassure and comfort him, when all Aramis really wanted to say that he had been right to run, that there must be a separate circle of hell for the sort of torture they had witnessed. D'Artagnan was still staring at him, his brow furrowed and a plea for forgiveness written clearly upon his face. Once again, Aramis floundered.

"D'Artagnan..."

It was Athos' tense whisper that came to his rescue.

_Praise the Lord, oh my soul..._

Aramis stepped aside. Athos had actually managed to turn his head ever so slightly so that his pale eyes were now looking past Aramis and straight at d'Artagnan. There was their Athos, covering up his hurried breathing and his painfully clenched teeth with sheer determination.

The smile that spread on d'Artagnan's face was like a bright sunrise. Aramis was afraid that it would prove to be just as painful to Athos when the boy flew past him and knelt next to the bed, but mercifully d'Artagnan kept his hands to himself.

"Athos..." he whispered, and there was a world of love and adoration in that name. "I was so afraid, I was so afraid you wouldn't... and Tréville said you were so poorly and I was afraid... you always say I shouldn't let my heart rule my head and I did and I'm so sorry. I shouldn't, but I just... I was so afraid, Athos... can you forgive me?"

Athos' lips twitched in something that might have become a smile, had the effort not made him shudder.

"There is... nothing... to forgive," he said between shaky breaths.

"All night I was... I was so scared you might have died," d'Artagnan said, his voice high and sounding so much younger than usual. He was an elite soldier now, but underneath the uniform, there was still a fatherless boy.

"I'm..." Athos paused. If he said he was fine, Aramis might have to strangle him with his bare hands. "...still here," Athos concluded. That he was, though for how much longer only God knew.

"Tréville said it's bad..." d'Artagnan said, his voice very quiet and unsteady.

Athos looked up, past d'Artagnan and straight at Aramis, his request clear. He did not have the strength to find the words to comfort d'Artagnan, and while Aramis was not sure that he did, he knew he had to try. He owed it to both of them.

He put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and pulled him to a chair. The boy followed without resistance and listened quietly to Aramis' explanation. He sat through it all with little interruption, only asking for clarification a few times, unaware that he was simultaneously eating the breakfast Porthos put into his hands.

Porthos quietly slipped out in the middle of it all, having grabbed a piece of bread for himself. On the way out, he gently brushed a finger across Athos' hand. Aramis appreciated his willingness to go and search for the laudanum, even when he was clearly reluctant to do so.

Once d'Artagnan had been brought up to speed, he still looked shocked, but also somewhat relieved. Whatever threatening scenarios his brain had conjured during the night, knowing the reality, however ghastly, seemed to calm him. Then again, he had yet to see a spasm.

Together they sat Athos up and slowly fed him some weak gruel, followed by water. That he was eating and drinking only a few hours after the second tetanic spasm gave Aramis some hope.

D'Artagnan was just as gentle as Porthos, though he was obviously insecure and jittery. Aramis could not blame him for it. He was supposed to be the medic among them, but even he was anxious around Athos. It was like balancing on a knife's edge. They had to touch him to provide care, had to speak to him to provide comfort, but the things that were supposed to aid Athos might also trigger his next spasm at any time.

Porthos returned just after noon, clutching a tiny glass bottle.

"How did it go?" Aramis asked, taking it from him. Porthos shook his head wearily.

"I've got it now," he said.

Aramis held the bottle up against the dim light that the heavy shutters let into the room. He could not see much. It was such a small thing, but he was excited for the promises that bottle held.

"How is he?" Porthos asked under his breath.

"Much the same," Aramis said, casting a quick look at Athos and d'Artagnan. "He has been restless, some spasms..."

Porthos' eyes widened.

"Nothing major," Aramis hastened to add. "Just small ones, shudders more than anything."

It was curious how quickly he had gotten used to Athos' pain. What would have been cause for great trepidation a day or two ago was now a minor incident.

He uncorked a bottle and sniffed. The scent of alcohol was overpowering, but there was also something else, something Aramis could not place.

"Are you sure it is real?" he asked.

Porthos nodded solemnly. "One part of opium dissolved in nine parts of spirit."

Aramis knew that Porthos would not give him anything for Athos if he weren't absolutely certain of its origin. Not only did he trust Porthos with his life, he trusted him with Athos' as well.

"Be careful," Porthos warned. "Only a small spoonful. The apothecary said that a _roquille_ is enough to kill a man."

Aramis took a small pewter spoon from his medical kit. A half dozen spoons to a _roquille_. One should do no harm, but would hopefully ease Athos' suffering. He would even be able to repeat the dose if necessary.

He stood bent over Tréville's desk, the spoon in one hand, the bottle of laudanum in the other, and raised his eyes heavenwards, asking God to guide his hand. He had no knowledge to rely on here, only faith.

"Athos," he said softly, taking a seat next to the bed. Pale eyes flickered open and Aramis was taken aback by the sheer agony that was reflected in them. Athos had barely spoken and had said no word about the pain he was in. It was time they gave him some respite.

"I have a medicine here, laudanum, to take the edge off," Aramis explained.

"Praised be laudanum," Athos replied hoarsely. Something like amusement flickered across his face. It took Aramis a moment to understand.

"Now is hardly the time for lessons in Latin conjugation," he answered with a smirk. "I will praise or _laudare_ it as soon as it works."

" _Laudabo,"_ Athos corrected.

Aramis carefully dropped the reddish-brown liquid onto the spoon. Athos swallowed it dutifully, but instantly his eyes closed and his face twitched. Aramis held his breath, hoping the reaction would pass before it developed into a full spasm.

A few heartbeats later, Athos opened his eyes again, to Aramis' great relief.

"It's... bitter," Athos said and Aramis almost laughed out loud.

"If that is your only complaint, consider me pleased," he replied, softly brushing a finger along Athos' jaw.

D'Artagnan had watched them closely and was now smiling broadly.

"You're going to be fine now, Athos," he said. "The laudanum is going to take the pain away."

He leaned back against the nightstand, resting a hand on the bed next to Athos' head, as close as he could get without actually touching him.

_Steadfast love and mercy._

Steadfast love was certainly in the room, and Aramis held high hopes for mercy as well. God in his mercy had given them the means to combat even this dreadful disease.

They were all in good spirits now. Porthos was even able to talk d'Artagnan into a game of cards; heeding Athos' whispered warning to not play for money. Finally, they were able to do something. Porthos had been right, they were musketeers, they didn't just pray for their victories, they worked for them. And finally, they had been given a suitable weapon in this fight.

As the bells of _Saint-Sulpice_ chimed one o'clock, Aramis asked Athos how he was feeling. He got no response, even though Athos was awake and looking at him.

"Has there been any improvement?" Aramis tried again.

"None," Athos said tersely.

Aramis had not expected that, but maybe the dosage had been too small. He gave Athos another spoon of laudanum and they resumed their wait. Another half hour later, Aramis barely even had to ask, recognising the haunted look in Athos' eyes. A small spasm gripped Athos just a few minutes later, but he still insisted on taking the next dosage, exhausted as he was.

Aramis alternated between flipping through Paré's medical accounts and fervent prayer. He prayed for deliverance, for the laudanum to finally have some effect.

"Can I try it?" d'Artagnan asked when Aramis administered the fourth dose.

"Are you in pain?" Aramis asked sharply.

"No, but I thought we could see if it does anything to me," d'Artagnan said. "You know, see if I still feel pain afterwards."

Aramis had to allow that the plan wasn't a bad one.

"Seems a fair test," Porthos said. "It won't harm him, will it?"

"If it's truly laudanum, it shouldn't," Aramis replied.

"It is laudanum," Porthos said with certainty.

So d'Artagnan swallowed laudanum as well and cursed fluently at its bitter taste, rinsing his mouth profusely.

"That is vile!" he proclaimed much to Porthos' amusement.

They all watched him carefully. After only a few minutes, d'Artagnan was sagging against Tréville's nightstand.

"'m fine, jus' tired," he said when asked, his words slurred and barely intelligible.

Soon d'Artagnan had fallen asleep right there on the floor. Porthos pulled a blanket over him.

"Your dosage... seems accurate," Athos said, managing to give his hoarse whisper a measure of his usual wryness.

Aramis gave him one more dose of laudanum, hoping that the accumulated effect would bring Athos the desired respite. He did not dare to give him more.

Athos gagged on the last dose, struggling to swallow the bitter liquid, causing him to cough, which in turn caused his muscles to spasm. D'Artagnan woke with a start, staring blearily at Athos convulsing on the bed.

It was only a small spasm; nothing compared to the one Aramis himself had caused this morning, but it was enough to make d'Artagnan cry. The boy was still sitting on the floor, groggy from his drugged sleep and flabbergasted by what he was witnessing. Porthos kneeled behind him and held him close.

With Porthos' guidance, d'Artagnan was able to gently finagle his fingers into Athos' fist a few minutes after the spasm had passed. Several more minutes passed before Athos was able to look at him.

"I'm so sorry I left you," d'Artagnan said, his voice wobbling considerably. "I had no idea. I — I should have stayed. I shouldn't have left you to face this. I won't leave you again, I swear I won't."

It was obvious that Athos had no strength to reply verbally, but it was all in his eyes, his love for d'Artagnan and his happiness to have him by his side. With a monumental effort, Athos tightened his fingers, giving d'Artagnan's hand a reassuring squeeze.

The effect of the small movement was immediate. D'Artagnan smiled his slow sunrise of a smile. Athos convulsed on the bed, even that small too much for his poisoned body.

But Athos was still breathing, and that was good. Aramis had to hold on to that bit of good, he had to focus on that little shred of something positive to keep the darkness at bay.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations
> 
> Dosage of laudanum and its utter inability to induce sleep in tetanus patients is taken from a report on several cases presented in: Russel, J. (1860). Clinical lecture on opium: its use and abuse. British Medical Journal. No. 158, pp. 334-336. The amount has been translated into pre-revolutionary French liquid measures and adjusted to the lack of pipettes (to my astonishment those were not invented for another 200 years). Opium was known in Europe at the time, but this is set well before its big time of widespread use. Laudanum is still available now; it's a controlled drug. It also now has some quality standards, with unfortunately wasn't the case back then, making dosage and responses a lot more flexible.
> 
> Faire face — "Rise up", "Face up to something" is the motto of the Armée de l'Air, the French Air Force.
> 
> Ventre-saint-gris — Holy Friday / Holy Spirit (origin uncertain, heavily altered to avoid blasphemy), used only once in the novel, by Tréville, but too beautiful to ignore
> 
> Diable! — "Devil" (3rd most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 19 times)
> 
> Paré — Ambroise Paré (1510 – 1590) was a French barber surgeon who served in that role for kings Henry II, Francis II, Charles IX and Henry III. He is considered one of the fathers of surgery and modern forensic pathology and a pioneer in surgical techniques and battlefield medicine, especially in the treatment of wounds. He also authored multiple books.
> 
> Sangdieu — "blood of God" (8th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 7 times)
> 
> Psalm 103:2-4 — "Praise the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy"
> 
> Roquille — Ancien régime liquid volume measurement, equivalent to approximately 29.75ml
> 
> Laudare/laudabo — Latin "to praise", the second is the first-person singular future active indicative, so the translation of Aramis' "I will praise". Athos' tendency to correct everyone's Latin is book canon.


	5. Être et durer (To be and endure)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in posting. It's entirely down to having one of the craziest work weeks of my life. A week full of crazy levels of responsibility, international & national travel, many challenges (mostly very successfully dealt with), and very little sleep. I finally managed to get some rest last night and had the energy to spare to get the edits done on this chapter today. Half time for this fic now! Five more chapters to go after this one. And a rather intense story line for the musketeers, particularly poor Athos.

At Tréville’s orders, the garrison was deathly quiet. They hardly spoke; with no change in the situation, there was very little left to say between them. The noise of Paris was muted by the heavy shutters and the blankets they had pinned up to try and keep the room dark. At any time, the room itself was cluttered with three bedrolls, piles of soiled and clean cloths, several basins of tepid water and a variety of cups and spoons.

It felt like a morgue.

Aramis alternated between pacing and prayer, finding no relief in either. There was no escape from the incessant questions that plagued his mind, but his ears were deaf to the answers the Lord undoubtedly provided.

He tried to sharpen his senses with diligent scripture study, but couldn’t find comfort in the holy bible. He sat and read by the light of their solitary candle or by one of the small rays of sunlight they still permitted into the room. It was never enough light. He could decipher the words, but not the meaning behind them. Even his favourite verses seemed oddly hollow and meaningless.

Darkness surrounded him, both physically and spiritually.

Yet, if there was one ray of light, one living embodiment of God’s love and mercy, it was Porthos. He remained steadfast and caring as the days wore on without any sign of improvement.

Aramis tried to smile when he was tending to Athos, but it felt more and more like putting on a mask. He was familiar with masks, _juste Dieu_ he was, but he never had to wear them when tending to the sick and injured. He was only aware he smiled at his patients because Porthos used to tease him about it. Now he had to force his mouth into some weak approximation of a smile.

It hurt.

Porthos smiled naturally and brightly, sometimes barely suppressing his usual booming laugh into a quiet chuckle. There wasn’t much to laugh about, not after days upon days of spasms, but Porthos found some happiness even in the most ordinary of scenes. Aramis accidentally snapping a quill between his fingers while trying to make an annotation; d’Artagnan’s clumsiness after yet another night with hardly any sleep; even Athos’ wild hair, matted with sweat and tousled by his constant agitation, made Porthos smile fondly.

Porthos found his happiness wherever the Lord put him.

Aramis knew no such contentment. He yearned for answers. He wanted to know why Athos had been struck with this horrible disease, what he had done to deserve such harsh judgement. He wanted to know how a seemingly innocent and quickly healed cut could cause such agony. He wanted to know what triggered the spasms. They diligently avoided noise and light now, and Athos made no attempts to exert himself in the slightest, but the convulsions still occurred, sometimes multiple times in the space of an hour. Most importantly, Aramis yearned for an answer on the matter of treatment. There had to be something other than prayer to bring Athos some relief.

The others suffered from no such qualms. They were there with their whole body and spirit, while Aramis’ mind wandered.

D’Artagnan was devoted to Athos. They were all close friends, but d’Artagnan adored Athos as a mentor and something of a father figure. In d’Artagnan’s eyes, Athos could do no wrong. He was evidently heartbroken, but he also had the unwavering conviction that his hero would pull through.

Porthos on the other hand was well aware of Athos’ minute chance of survival. Between the four of them, Porthos was most intimately acquainted with death and disease. Yet his spirit never faltered. He only saw a friend in need and responded accordingly.

Aramis wished he shared that strength.

Athos was no longer granted recess between bouts of torture. His body remained rigid throughout, even when he was not in the grip of a seizure. They struggled to feed him and care for him. The very things they did to keep him alive were also the most likely to kill him. Every action caused Athos great agitation, and would easily make his poisoned muscles contract. Aramis felt that speaking to Athos was necessary — to preserve his sanity if nothing else — but sometimes the slightest sound resulted in untold agony.

Nourishment remained their most difficult challenge. For every time they managed to feed him some weak broth or gruel, there were two or three attempts when Athos could not open his mouth enough to receive a spoon.

As much as Aramis had hated the physician’s diagnosis, but it was due to his warning that they kept trying to feed Athos with such desperation. Every time they managed to get the smallest amount of food into him, they shared a look of delight. Death was not yet imminent. If they could help him keep up his strength, Athos would survive.

Porthos patiently sat and dripped wine into Athos’ mouth during every reprieve between spasms. Porthos sat for hours, smiling at every drop that found its target, wiping away any that didn’t.

After his failure with the laudanum, Aramis had permitted Athos wine. It might not mask the pain, but he knew that his friend took solace in the drink. With the small amounts of liquid they could force down his throat, it might as well be something fortifying. There were many who claimed that wine was the best remedy for ailments of the soul, as well as those of the body. Since Athos certainly subscribed to the former part of the theory, Aramis saw no reason to deny him the latter. He remembered Athos’ insistence that he would like to drink something of exceptional quality while he still could and made sure to requisition only his most treasured vintages. Nobody objected. If it served Athos’ wellbeing, every single one of the musketeers would have eagerly sworn off the wine for the rest of their lives.

The wine supply was truly not the difficult bit. Getting Athos to swallow it was. He tried valiantly; Athos always tried, but he didn’t normally fail. Athos was a superb swordsman, an excellent strategist, a magnificent leader, and a great friend. Watching him struggle was painful, but Aramis chided himself for the feeling. He should not dare think of pain when Athos was so obviously taken hostage by much worse agony.

It still hurt to see the shaking, sweating figure on the bed. That pale, drawn face, those parched lips that could not open of their own volition... that was not Athos. The accursed illness was destroying the man Aramis knew and loved.

Sometimes the drink choked Athos, making him cough as it ran down his windpipe. Sometimes the cough triggered spasms. Still, there was nothing for it but to continue trying. Aramis admired Porthos’ strength and fortitude, his willingness to risk hurting their friend again and again. They both knew it was the only way to keep Athos’ fleeting strength up.

When they were lucky, the liquid just ran from Athos’ mouth. They gave him only white wine now, nominally to spare the blankets, but really it was because Aramis could not bear to see Athos with what looked like blood covering his face. It was too painful, too close to that dreadful reality Aramis refused to imagine.

Less than three weeks ago they had play-acted, had staged a funeral for Athos. Afterwards, he’d asked how it was, sitting safe and sound in a tavern. Now...

Aramis bit down on his finger.

He would not think of it.

The sharp nip of his teeth against sensitive flesh brought his thoughts back to the present, not that it had become any less painful. He stared at the bible in his hands open at the Book of Job. He’d been trying to read it, trying to find answers in this great tale of woe and suffering, or more importantly this tale of suffering that had ended and turned into a glorification of God. Like Athos, Job had had three friends surrounding him. And like Porthos, d’Artagnan and himself, those friends had been useless and outright wrong.

_What use are all your books and those snooty doctors if they can’t even take away the pain?_

Porthos’ words kept coming back to him.

_What use are you?_

Porthos was too kind to voice that, but the implication was clear. What use was a medic who couldn’t even keep an ailing man comfortable? What use was his medicine? What use was his skill with a musket? What use was his religion? What use was Aramis himself in the face of tetanus?

Not much was the honest answer.

They had stopped asking him what to do; they had accepted his utter impotence against this almighty foe. At first, they had turned to him frequently, hopefully. At first, Aramis had had some ideas, some form of advice. Now there was nothing left, just darkness and emptiness.

He cradled his forehead in his hands, sitting slumped over Tréville’s desk.

Darkness, inside and out.

Porthos padded over to him quietly. They had all fallen into the habit of taking their boots off inside the room to silence their steps as much as possible. Aramis did not even lift his head. He had nothing to offer Porthos, no smile, no words of comfort or jest.

Porthos’ hands were on his shoulders, a warm presence, grounding somehow. Aramis didn’t stir as Porthos began to knead his muscles, but slowly he felt a tension fall away from him, one he had not even been aware of. His glance fell upon his bible, still open upon the desk.

_God has softened my heart, and the Almighty has troubled me. For I have not perished because of the darkness that hangs over me, neither has the mist covered my face._

Gradually, Aramis relaxed into Porthos’ firm touch. He wished he could share that blessing with Athos who needed it so much more than him. As Porthos dug his fingers into his shoulders, patiently working out the knots, Aramis looked at Athos. He could not begin to imagine the pain his friend suffered. Darkness hung over Athos, and over all of them.

And yet...

_I have not perished because of the darkness that hangs over me._

And if Aramis had any say in this, Athos wouldn’t perish at all.

He tilted his head back, looking at Porthos at an awkward angle, smiling instinctively as his friend gave his shoulders a fond squeeze.

“Care to explain your plan?” Porthos asked, his voice so low it was just a rumble against Aramis’ back.

“We’ll help him relax a bit,” Aramis said. He let his head fall backwards until it rested against Porthos. He could feel his friend’s fingers card through his hair, pressing gently against his skull. Porthos did not rush him, he gave Aramis as much time as he needed to formulate his plan.

“I need Serge to boil water,” Aramis said eventually. “As much as he can. And if you could get the bathtub up here...”

Porthos chuckled.

“I know,” Aramis said. “But we can’t move him out of the room and I think... well warm water usually helps with sore muscles. If we make it as hot as we can, maybe it’ll bring him some relief.”

Porthos hummed his assent. “He’ll need it after all these days,” he said.

Athos agreed. They put the plan in front of him after he had recovered from yet another spasm and he did not argue or even question Aramis’ explanations. He merely blinked his eyes to signal his agreement.

“A hot bath... would be... welcome,” Athos said, his voice even although he had to pause for breath frequently. “I have been... uncomfortable.”

"Does it hurt a lot?" D'Artagnan asked. He had barely left Athos’ bedside since his return, helping where he could, but mostly just watching him.

Athos remained silent for a few moments, clearly contemplating his options. Aramis imagined that he was chiding himself for some imagined weakness, wishing he could just deny his pain, but deciding it was too late for that.

"Do you know... the feeling... you sometimes... get at night... when you wake up... because... a cramp... has set into your foot?" Athos finally asked.

D'Artagnan nodded, as they all knew he would. They spent enough nights sleeping next to each other.

"It's like that," Athos said simply, as if that closed the matter.

A scoff came from the corner.

"Only that it's in every muscle in his body and it’s been there for a week," Porthos said and d'Artagnan paled.

Athos closed his eyes for a moment.

"Porthos," he replied. "I was... attempting... to not frighten... the boy."

Aramis had to bite his own hand to keep from laughing out loud at that. Judging by the choked snort that came from Porthos, he was not alone in his predicament. For the space of one heartbeat, something like mirth flickered across Athos’ face, but it was gone again as quick as an illusion.

Aramis smiled. There was still some of the usual snark in the sweating, shivering form of his friend.

It was more difficult than it ever should have been to provide a bath for Athos. The garrison had its own tub, a simple metal trough that was perfectly adequate for use in its usual place next to the kitchen. However, it was not built for traveling. Wrangling it up the stairs and into Tréville’s room proved to be a challenge. Muffled curses and occasional clangs of metal could be heard from the courtyard.

Porthos had taken d’Artagnan with him, insisting that he needed his help and implying that a bit of air would do him good. Aramis was left alone with Athos, trying to keep up a light conversation with him to give him something to focus on. He kept telling himself that the others were just outside, a shout away if Athos should take a turn for the worse.

A shiver ran through Athos when Porthos came back into the room. They had dragged the metal screen that usually separated Tréville’s bed from his office across the room and covered it with heavy blankets to keep out the light when they had to open the door. It was still not enough, the faint glow of daylight causing Athos to groan in pain.

Porthos cast Aramis a worried glance, but addressed Athos directly, kneeling next to the bed.

“We have to lift the tub upright to get it around the corner and through the door,” he explained. “I can’t do that with just d’Artagnan. We need Bernard’s help.”

Silence.

Bernard was the only musketeer to rival Porthos’ strength and more than once besting him in hand-to-hand combat. If any one man was able to help them lift that tub, it was Bernard.

As the silence stretched, Aramis fully expected that they would have to argue with Athos. At the best of times, Athos was reluctant to share his perceived weaknesses with anyone. This time he had to. Aramis knew they were clutching at straws, but better straws than no hope at all. Maybe the bath would bring Athos relief and if Bernard was the only one able to help — then that was just the way it had to be.

But Athos would despise making a display of his feebleness. Bernard was a comrade they all valued highly, but he was still an outsider to their little circle and would be the first other than Tréville and the surgeon to step foot into the room since Athos had fallen ill.

“Go ahead,” Athos said, softly, but with determination.

Porthos murmured his thanks and pressed a gentle kiss onto his hair, the only part of Athos they were somewhat confident they could touch without causing him additional pain.

“This won’t be without light and noise,” Aramis cautioned.

Athos looked up at him and somehow, inexplicably, there was trust in his eyes. He let out an audible breath before replying.

“Blindfold me.”

He had refused the blindfold at his execution, but that had been then and now…now a sliver of light held more terror than a firing squad.

They moved the tub through the narrow doorway with great care, Porthos and Bernard taking the bulk of the weight while d’Artagnan nudged it in the right direction. Of course it did not go smoothly. Of course there was a metallic clang and of course Athos reacted to it.

Aramis had watched him closely and caught the telltale shiver immediately. Once again, Athos’ neck snapped backwards, almost throwing off the cloth covering his eyes, and his fists clenched.

It was nothing, a small spasm, nothing out of their new ordinary.

But it was enough for Bernard to pale. He had carefully avoided looking at Athos, but turned when he heard the commotion of his fit. Porthos held him back.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he said.

Bernard shook his head, seemingly transfixed by the sad spectacle, but soon dragged his eyes away and turned his back to the bed, granting Athos the smallest bit of privacy.

“We pray,” he said.

The tub successfully placed in the corner of the room, Bernard tipped his hat and turned to leave. Aramis was reminded why Athos in particular valued him beyond his considerable fighting prowess — he was a man of very few words.

Aramis escorted him to the door, expressing his thanks.

Bernard stopped, about to leave, and looked straight at Aramis.

“For when I am weak, then am I strong,” he said before gently closing the door behind himself.

_I take pleasure in my infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, then am I powerful._

Aramis stared at the door in a daze. A fellow musketeer quoting Paul to him? Highly irregular, bible verses were usually his domain. For all that Athos was eager to correct his Latin, he rarely indulged in theological debates, even though he was exceptionally well-read.

_For when I am weak, then am I powerful._

Paul explained all the things he had to endure by calling to mind Christ’s suffering. _I take pleasure in my infirmities... for Christ’s sake._ Aramis took no pleasure in Athos’ infirmities, that much was certain. But he had to admit that there had been so much strength in Athos’ weakness. He was truly powerful, and maybe Aramis himself needed the reminder of Christ’s suffering. Taking pleasure in the situation he was put in, in aiding his friend in his suffering, to ensure he was as safe and comfortable as he possibly could be. There was weakness, but the four of them together were also incredibly strong. As long as they had Christ on their side, what was tetanus but a test from above?

_For though I go in the midst of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they have comforted me._

Aramis smiled broadly and turned back towards his friends.

“Bath time!” he announced.

They made quick work of filling the tub. None of them even had to step outside; a chain of musketeers had formed between the kitchen and Tréville’s room. They swiftly passed pail after pail of water from one to the other, Bernard right in front of the door. Even though Athos was hidden from view by the screen, Aramis appreciated his discretion.

Porthos helped Athos undress while Aramis and d’Artagnan fretted over the temperature of the bath. It needed to be as warm as possible, but not hot enough to scald Athos. They spread linens over the metal of the tub to make him as comfortable as possible.

All notions of comfort were forgotten when Porthos started to help Athos from the bed. Athos made no sound, but the unblinking stare of his eyes and the carefully measured breaths told Aramis just how painful and exhausting the process was. Almost a week without much sleep or food would take its toll on anyone, and Athos had been in supreme pain the entire time.

They slowly covered the few steps between the bed and the tub, Porthos taking most of Athos’ weight. Athos’ limbs were stiff and he was shaking with weakness, pain, or both.

Mercifully, all this activity was not accompanied by yet another spasm.

_The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want._

Maybe it would work; maybe Athos would get to relax a little in the warm water. Aramis hoped and prayed for that small miracle with all his heart.

He dipped his hand into the bathwater once more, adding a bit more cold water.

“Well, they’ve both had their fingers all over your bath,” Porthos said in a low voice. “Time for you to get in, _mon cher.”_

With his body being so inflexible, settling Athos into the tub proved to be a real challenge. When he was finally submerged in the hot water, he was still stiff as a board and breathing in harsh little bursts, his eyes fixed on some faraway point, unseeing.

“At least you get your bath all to yourself,” d’Artagnan said lightly. “I always had to go after father and mother, and when you work on the farm all day... you know...”

“Quit your whining,” Aramis replied, joining in with d’Artagnan’s attempt at some of their usual banter. “Some of us had siblings to contend with. I swear my sisters scrubbed me raw every time.”

That drew a quiet chuckle from Porthos. “Always trouble with the ladies, _mon ami._ ”

“Not my fault _maman_ kept birthing girls,” Aramis protested. D’Artagnan and Porthos sniggered at that. His reputation as an incurable libertine never failed to amuse them.

“She needed... the help...” Athos replied. He was breathless and spoke in a hoarse whisper, but Aramis could have embraced him for this show of good spirit.

“Have you two been having correspondence?” he asked. “Her words exactly, she praises the Lord for granting her some support.”

Athos seemed to relax a little in the warm water. Maybe it was Aramis’ imagination, but he thought he saw the tightly clenched muscles unfurl ever so slightly. Maybe, just maybe, this was actually working. Maybe he had finally been allowed to find a way to give Athos some relief.

The three of them crouched around the tub, anxiously watching Athos.

“How is it, _mon cher?”_ Porthos asked.

“It’s good,” Athos answered, struggling to focus his eyes, even though Porthos had made sure to move within his limited field of vision. To Aramis, his words were more beautiful than the song of heavenly choirs. It was working; it was good. They had finally found something that worked.

_He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul._

The smell of camomile wafted around the room with the steam. Aramis had added some to the water. His mother used to do that when one of them had been ill and he was sure it wouldn’t hurt.

Even if it did nothing for Athos, the familiar fragrance certainly calmed Aramis.

He watched as Athos’ fingers slowly uncurled and were soon spread almost straight in the water. He seemed to be melting into the warmth like wax in a flame and it was a joy to witness. At least some of the pain seemed to be floating away on the water.

The bath was not a cure, but at least it provided some help in Athos’ recovery. At least they had not subjected him to additional torment for nothing. A bit of relaxation was not much, but it was something. A bath every day, maybe, depending on how long the effects lasted and how Athos felt about it all. It was a plan, and it was finally something they could do for him.

When Athos suddenly slumped and his head fell face-first into the water, they all shouted in surprise.

D’Artagnan, who was closest, reacted quickly, dragging him up by his hair.

Aramis was next to him in an instant.

_Dear Lord, let him not be dead._

Breathing.

Pulse.

“He’s alive.”

Athos was alive, unconscious, but not dead. Aramis had not killed him.

“Get him out.”

Too hot, too much for his battered body, too much, and Aramis should have known. He should have realised he was only doing more harm.

Porthos lifted Athos like a ragdoll and placed him on the bed.

“Open the window.”

It was too warm, the steam, the camomile, everything was too much, and Aramis needed air. Athos needed air.

The light breeze was a blessing.

Aramis frantically patted Athos dry. He had to get dry before he caught a cold on top of everything else — or worse. Who knew? This whole idea was cursed. He should have listened to the physician. He should have known. Too much. He had hurt Athos with his ineptitude. Through all of this, Athos had never passed out, but Aramis’ ridiculous plan had done it.

D’Artagnan watched with wide eyes. The boy knew whose fault this was. If they lost Athos now, it was Aramis’ fault. He was a poor excuse for a medic, a musketeer, and a friend. He had made it _worse._

Porthos gently nudged him aside.

“Let me.”

And Aramis was left to stand there with nothing to do. Watching Porthos make up for his failure.

He was shaking.

With more light than usual streaming through the open window, it became apparent just how emaciated Athos looked. His naked body was pale and weak. Too weak to bear such agitation. A hot bath — he should never have suggested it.

If Athos’ heart had stopped...

“At least there’s no spasm,” d’Artagnan said and draped his arm around Aramis’ shoulders.

No spasm.

But if his heart had stopped...

Athos woke briefly, but seemed barely aware of his surroundings before he dropped off into a deep sleep. He slept for hours and still there was no spasm, not even when he woke, completely exhausted, but not in any great deal of pain.

Aramis took the first watch that night, knowing he would not be able to sleep.

_Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord._

D’Artagnan had curled up in a ball at the foot of Athos’ bed, unwilling to be even a few feet away from him. He had not said anything, had merely stared at Athos wide-eyed before falling asleep. His fear found voice in his sleep, as he whimpered softly.

_Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!_

Athos had heard the small sound d’Artagnan made, of course he had. He was always so attuned to the boy’s needs.

“I’m sorry,” Athos whispered, his voice somewhat stronger than before. “I’m sorry to heap this onto him.”

Aramis shushed him. “Don’t speak, _mon cher ami._ Preserve your strength. We will take care of d’Artagnan.”

“He should not have to bear this,” Athos said. “Nor should you. I am in your debt, Aramis, for all you do for me.”

_If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand?_

“I do very little,” Aramis replied. “I endangered your life today.”

“You saved it, countless times. You have given me relief today that I wasn’t granted before,” Athos said and Aramis could not believe that his unconsciousness was a good thing to him.

“What brutes are we to see that as relief,” he said.

“It was more than I could have hoped for,” Athos replied. “You all are. You have come with me into this hell and I thank you for it.”

_But there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered._

They sat in silence for several minutes as Athos regained his breath. Even though the tetanus had for now released its relentless grip, he was still very weak.

“You do not need to stay and watch,” he said eventually.

“It is...” Aramis started, but Athos interrupted him.

“It is my punishment to bear.”

“It is not! God does not...”

“I know what I have done, Aramis. This is just punishment.”

It was not and never could be. Nobody deserved _this_ , certainly not Athos. Whatever sins he had committed, Aramis knew him as a just and honourable man. He had his faults, as they all did, but he was a good man.

“Don’t resign yourself to this,” Aramis pleaded. “You are strong.”

“I shall fight,” Athos said as calm as ever. “For them, for you, and for all you have lost, but I do not, for a moment, question the fairness of my sentence.”

_I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning._

Aramis prayed to find the right words, a way to comfort Athos.

“Your sins are forgiven,” he reminded him, but Athos would have none of it.

“Some are born high and fall far,” he insisted.

Athos had not fallen, had never failed anyone but himself and his own impossible expectations. But no matter which avenue Aramis tried, Athos would block his advances, so set was he in his terrible opinion of himself.

“It is not punishment,” Aramis insisted. “You are merely a good man being tested by God.”

Athos looked at him with great fondness and the slightest approximation of a smile ghosted across his face.

“If it makes it easier to bear for you, so be it.”

When the spasms returned with renewed vigour, Aramis left the matter in God’s hands. He did what he could to ease Athos’s suffering, but he knew that his life, indeed both of their lives, were subject to a higher authority.

He spent the rest of the night in prayer.

_O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem. It is he who will redeem Israel from all its iniquities._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations  
> Être et durer —“To be and endure” Motto of the 3rd Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment of the French army.  
> Juste dieu — “Good god”  
> Job 23, 16-17 — “God has softened my heart, and the Almighty has troubled me. For I have not perished because of the darkness that hangs over me, neither has the mist covered my face.”  
> 2 Corinthians 12:10 —“ I take pleasure in my infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, then am I powerful.”  
> Psalm 23, 1-4 — “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. For though I go in the midst of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they have comforted me.”  
> Psalm 130 — “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications! If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered. I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning. O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem. It is he who will redeem Israel from all its iniquities.”
> 
> A word about the bible verses: To be historically accurate, Aramis would in all likelihood be reading these in Latin, even though there were French translations around at the time. However, I made the decision early on that I would not use either of those languages, simply because I want those verses to resonate with people and that's difficult if the majority of my readership needs to scroll down for a translation. For reading ease, the versions I use might also not be the exact words of any official bible translation, but I will always provide you with the information you need to find a certain passage in the bible of your choice.. I will usually look at translations that were around at the time (namely the Geneva bible and the Douay-Rheims bible) first, but give myself some flexibility. They won't be the exact words that a historical Aramis would have read anyways, so I might as well take some freedom and pick the translation that works best in my context. While I do not fiddle with the content, I have sometimes made adjustments for readability (e.g. “makes” instead of “maketh”). So yes... I'm cheating with my historical accuracy!


	6. Jamais être pris vivant  (Never to be taken alive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the next installment of Sans Peur & Sans Reproche! As you might have gathered from my tumblr, a first version of this was written a while ago, but it needed a heavy edit. Good things come to those who wait! It's here now and all that's left for me to say about this chapter is that I'm sorry... I'm so sorry...

Aramis woke with a start.

He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He needed to be watchful. He needed to be there for Athos. He needed to stay awake. He needed to...

_What if..._

There was a soft voice and it wasn't Porthos' or d'Artagnan's, it was Tréville's. And if Tréville was here...

He shouldn't have fallen asleep.

He had only sat down for a minute, weary when he shouldn't be, and had only meant to sit, not sleep sprawled all over the captain's desk. Tréville was here, which could only mean...

Aramis stood, the sudden motion making him dizzy. He ruthlessly squashed the feeling. He couldn't be weak, not in the face of... this.

Yet, against all expectation, the scene in front of him was... beautiful.

They were all there and it looked... peaceful. Tréville was on a chair next to the bed, with d'Artagnan sitting at his feet, leaning against the low nightstand. Porthos stood behind them, his arms crossed over his chest, a fond smile on his face as he looked down onto the three of them, somehow finding contentment even in this.

Athos was on the bed, and even though the stiffness had returned, he was undeniably breathing.

Aramis took a deep breath that turned out shakier than he would have liked.

Athos was still there.

He was alive.

He was breathing.

Porthos turned his head and gave him a slow smile of his own. It grounded Aramis in some strange, miraculous way, as he took the few steps from the desk to stand shoulder to shoulder with Porthos.

D'Artagnan grinned up at him swiftly before focussing back on the story that Tréville continued to read without interruption. Slowly, some of Porthos' calm seemed to seep into Aramis by sheer virtue of standing next to him.

For once the room was peaceful, the pain temporarily masked, smothered by kindness and caring.

Aramis vaguely recognised the story. It was military history, obviously, a story of the defence of France from conquest by the Holy Roman Empire. Not quite as dreadfully boring as Athos' usual fare of treatises on strategy, but still something he'd enjoy.

Tréville had been well aware of the previous day's events, that last ill-fated attempt to bring Athos some relief. Of course he had wanted to check on Athos. He had always been closest to Athos, even back in the early days when Athos had been little more than a shadow of himself, haunted as he was by the demons of his past.

They were all more than soldiers to their captain, more than mere subordinates, but Athos was special. Tréville kept him close; he trusted him, even when Athos did not trust himself. In this moment they looked almost like a family, with Tréville a father, or at the very least an older brother to Athos.

Aramis leaned into Porthos slightly, seeking comfort in his proximity.

God had sent help.

He needed to believe it, that Athos was not alone in this. The Lord had shown mercy, though not in the way Aramis had wished for. They were all here and now Tréville was as well, and together they would make sure that Athos got well again.

"Ah! Monsieur de Bayard... I am very sad to see you in this state; you who were such a virtuous knight," Tréville read. It reminded Aramis of nights spent with his sisters at his father's feet, listening as he told them fantastical tales of long-lost kings and brave knights.

He recognised the story now, the tale of Bayard, the good knight, dead and buried a hundred or more years ago, but still very much alive in the minds of his countrymen.

They seemed to be closing in on the dead and buried part of the story, as Tréville read out the next line.

" _Monsieur_ , there is no need to pity me. I die as a man of honour ought, doing my duty; but I pity you, because you are fighting against your king, your country, and your oath."

D'Artagnan sighed wistfully as Tréville carefully closed the book.

"So died Bayard, _le bon chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_ ," Tréville concluded.

"He really was," d'Artagnan said. "Fearless, faultless... the perfect soldier, really."

Aramis heard Porthos chuckle next to him. Romanticising war was a privilege of the young and inexperienced. Undoubtedly, d'Artagnan imagined some future version of himself matching Bayard step for step, a distinguished officer, heroic military commander, indeed, why not a _Maréchal de France_.

"I wanted to..." Athos said in a feeble yet perfectly calm voice. "To die like him... for our king, our country, our oath."

For a few minutes, Aramis' spirits had lifted, but Athos' words brought them crashing to the ground in an instant. He felt guilty for allowing his thoughts to stray.

"My apologies... for failing to..." Athos said, his eyes on Tréville.

The captain shook his head slowly and reached out for Athos' hand.

_What is man, that You are mindful of him? And the son of man that You should care about him?_

"You have not failed, Athos," he said and Aramis hoped that those words carried more weight coming from Tréville, since Athos refused to believe his friends.

" _Sans peur et sans reproche_ ," d'Artagnan said, sitting up straight and smiling at Athos. "That's you."

"You are ever a steadfast servant to France, to the crown, and to the musketeers," Tréville added. Athos remained unconvinced, averting his gaze.

Tréville's voice did not belie his emotions, but it was evident to Aramis that their captain was saying so much more, was giving so much more comfort than what his words encompassed. If Athos had been as precious to his family as he was to Tréville — _to them all —_ maybe they wouldn't be having this conversation now.

Next to him, Porthos drew in a shaky breath. Aramis could not begrudge him the sentiment. The tableau of love before them was heartrending. Those three men in front of them, with all their differences in character and position, to Aramis they summarised all that was good and grand in this world

_For you have made him little lower than God, and crowned him with glory and honour._

Glory and honour, and here they were, comrades, friends, and brothers, working, understanding, caring — living and helping Athos do the same.

They were there for Athos, had been for years, and would continue to be there for him until he believed himself to be as precious to them as any other in their little brotherhood. Not for the first time, Aramis cursed the woman who had made such a great man doubt himself to this degree. Between the three of them, with Porthos' love, d'Artagnan's adoration and most of all Tréville's guidance, maybe they could break her spell. Aramis himself, he probably wasn't the best to aid anyone through relationships and their aftermath.

"Your bravery and sense of duty are an example to all," Tréville said. "Seeing you fight this evil fills me with pride."

"You must regret..." Athos started, but Tréville bade him halt with a raised hand.

"I regret to see you brought so low," he said earnestly.

Athos forced himself to be more awake and aware than he had been in days, his eyes forced wide open, eager to show dignity even in his current position.

"I only wish I could lend you strength," Tréville said and clasped Athos' shoulder tightly.

Athos tried to fight it; Aramis could see it in his eyes.

Sounds were muffled: their shouts, the clatter of breaking pottery as they all moved at once. It all seemed very far away.

The whole world zeroed in on Athos' eyes, so full of unspeakable pain and terror. Aramis saw the vain attempt to fight against the spasm in those eyes, Athos' desperate will to be strong for his captain, to live when Tréville forbade him to die.

It was futile.

The spasm shot through Athos with the deadly force of a musket ball. Slowly, inexorably, the spasms curved his spine and squeezed his limbs, forcing his body into grotesque contortions, reminding Aramis of the poor souls he had seen tied to the breaking wheel as punishment for their crimes. All but the most atrocious crimes earned a convict the right to be strangled before this torture. Yet Athos' eyes never closed, never stopped displaying his utter agony and fear.

It was the worst spasm yet.

It never ended; only worsened.

Athos' spine was going to snap. It curved backwards further and further until Athos was resting solely on the heels of his feet and the back of his head. His spine was going to snap and Aramis couldn't do anything about it.

Athos fell to his side, facing away from them. The position made the curvature of his body even more obvious. He was bent into a semi circle.

Aramis was vaguely aware of the other three, shocked, dismayed, and as helpless as he was. It was torture to even watch this and yet there they stood, helpless, unable to do anything but stare. They were here to bear witness to Athos' pain, to watch and listen, even if they could not take any of it away from him.

The whole world seemed dim and distant. There was only Athos and his ragged breath was the only sound.

Athos' breathing turned to sharp gasps, sucking in air with single-minded determination.

Minutes passed and the spasm didn't stop. Not for the first time, Aramis questioned how long any man could bear such agony.

Athos' breathing became harsher, noisier, scraping in his throat. Determination became desperation, the air making an unsettling whistling sound.

Athos was choking, Aramis realised numbly. Athos was being slowly strangled by his own contracting muscles.

_And there was nothing he could do._

Tetanus was the hangman's noose, drawing tighter and tighter around Athos' throat. The gasps became shorter, harsher, louder, and still the invisible rope tightened in some perverse mockery of justice.

Then, only brief twitches remained.

The unnerving sound of Athos' choking ceased.

No sound. No air. No breath.

Athos wasn't breathing.

"Aramis, he's choking!"

Suddenly the whole world came crashing down on Aramis, too loud and too bright, and everywhere at once. D'Artagnan shouted for Athos; Porthos roared a wordless cry of agony.

Too much noise and still Athos wasn't breathing.

"Aramis! Aramis, you've got to help him!"

Hands grabbed him and shook him. Aramis fell to his knees, lips moving in silent prayer even though his mind was blank.

"Aramis!"

The scene around him seemed to be illuminated too brightly, as if a sudden flash of lightening had thrown it into sharp relief.

Tréville's legs gave out and he dropped heavily to the ground, burying his face in his hand.

Porthos rushed forward, closer to Athos, so close to him now that it was too late.

D'Artagnan wept.

"Aramis, do something!"

_Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine_

_Et lux perpetua luceat ei:_

_Requiescat in pace._

The _Amen_ would not come. Aramis had prayed these words so often, for friends and foes, soldiers and civilians. He had asked for eternal rest for so many. And now his brain could focus only on peace.

_Peace._

Athos deserved peace. He never got peace in life and now it seemed God had deigned to keep it from him even in death. He deserved peace and all he got was agony.

_Rest in peace._

The irony!

There had been nothing peaceful about this. Nothing.

A good man, condemned to perish like a rat.

_Peace._

There was no such thing.

D'Artagnan was sobbing desperately, mourning his friend and mentor, his hero who vanquished every foe only to fall victim to this accursed pestilence.

Aramis didn't have the tears. No more prayers, no tears, just emptiness. He was as empty as the promises of eternal light and peace. Lies, nothing but lies.

And suddenly there was a sound, rough and raw.

A gasp for air.

Small.

Desperate.

But undeniably there.

Athos was breathing.

Weak and choked, still battling against the tightness of his own muscles, the cramp that held his throat in an iron grip, but he was breathing

Athos was alive.

But Aramis was still empty, impotent and powerless. Unable to help, unable to do anything; silent and unmoving.

Porthos was there, and he was still whole and strong and he wasn't stuck, wasn't helpless. Porthos could — was speaking, talking to Athos, touching him.

Porthos turned Athos over, keeping up a stream of gentle reassurances, of encouragements, talking, talking, always talking. Soft and steady.

Tréville and d'Artagnan rushed past Aramis, jostling him where he still kneeled on the ground. Some distant part of Aramis' brain recognised that Athos was panicking, unsettled by his inability to draw as much breath as he needed, panting desperately, trying to fill his lungs with the air his body was screaming for.

"Slow down. I've got you, Athos, I've got you. You're breathing. Slow down. You're breathing alright. Slow down, I've got you..."

Porthos' voice washed over Aramis, so steady and reliable, so calm. Porthos held Athos cradled against his chest, his head against his shoulder, reassuring him that he wouldn't let him slide away, that he was alive. His voice was soft, so gentle, so patient, as if he was talking to a spooked horse.

"Focus on my breathing. You can feel my breathing. Breathe with me now. Breathe, Athos. Slowly... slowly. Breathe with me. Breathe in. Breathe out. In two three. Out two three. Breathe with me..."

Athos, still stiff, but no longer bent like a bow, was moved up and down by Porthos' deep breaths. And he breathed. A rasping, scraping sound, desperate and painful, but undeniably there. He was breathing. He was slowly settling into the rhythm Porthos was setting. Slowly, very slowly.

They all breathed in perfect synchronisation, Athos, Porthos, Tréville and d'Artagnan. Aramis struggled to fall into the same rhythm.

The only thing that mattered was that Athos was breathing slowly and steadily because Porthos told him to, because Porthos knew what Athos needed. With endless patience, Porthos coached Athos back to regular breathing, deep and steady, giving his body the air it craved.

Athos' breathing was the only indication of life. His eyes were closed and he lay awkwardly across Porthos' body. But he was breathing.

Athos was not dead.

Yet.

At some point they moved. D'Artagnan dropped to the ground beside the bed, closer, as close as he could possibly be without touching Athos. It had been touch, a loving touch that triggered this spasm. Tetanus had taken even that small comfort from them. Tréville dragged himself onto a chair, swaying like a drunk, groaning as if in pain, and once again burying his head in his hands.

Aramis stood, staggering, for one moment tempted to step forward and join Porthos on the bed. Then he turned, stalking unsteadily towards the desk instead. He had slept there not too long ago. He had slept and almost missed his friend's death. Not that he had been any more use to Athos awake. Helpless and useless he had watched as Athos was choked by his own constricting throat. Had watched and done nothing.

_God had forsaken him, just like He had forsaken Athos._

The thought came sudden and unbidden and Aramis tried to brush it aside. It remained, stubborn, growing until it occupied every corner of his mind.

_God had forsaken him._

He picked up his bible, but did not open it, turning it over in his hands instead. Tales of love and light felt utterly inadequate after what he had witnessed. There was no explanation on these pages for why a good man was made to suffer so dreadfully. Aramis would not wish tetanus upon his worst enemy, but God was less merciful.

Athos had done nothing to deserve this.

And yet God punished him.

The bible dropped from Aramis' numb fingers and fell face first onto the table. He stared at the creased and crumpled pages and did nothing.

D'Artagnan still sat huddled on the ground, staring up at Athos adoringly. He did not see the sorry state his friend was in, the pallor of the sweat-drenched skin, the weakness that made him shiver. Athos was balancing on a sheer edge between life and death, but all the boy saw was more heroism.

It made Aramis sick to his stomach.

Tréville remained hunched over in his chair, curled in on himself as if to shield against some great pain. He had lifted his head though, eyes fixed on the bed, watching the best man any of them knew die like a dog.

Athos was breathing; he was alive... but for how long? How long until the next spasm took hold of him? How long until it choked him permanently? Maybe it was a mercy, because what was the alternative? Dying of thirst would be slower. Or exhaustion might claim him, his courageous heart finally broken. Unless his neck broke first, obviously.

So many ways to die.

No way to live.

Porthos, as usual, was the only one to make himself useful. He had set Athos back down onto the bed once his breathing had calmed and settled into a regular rhythm. Aramis watched him wipe Athos' face; so gentle it hurt Aramis' heart. Porthos kept up a constant stream of tender reassurances, his low murmur the only sound in the room.

Porthos worked swiftly and efficiently, stripping both Athos and the bed, careful to jostle him as little as possible. And Aramis couldn't... He couldn't watch, couldn't bear to see his friend brought so low. There was no modesty left, no dignity. It was degrading to see a man so proud and strong made frail.

And Porthos took it all in his stride, made it out to be normal, a new reality he had settled into effortlessly.

And it hurt.

This was not normal and never would be. Athos so sick and feeble and dying and... dead if only for the space of a few heartbeats. It would never be normal to Aramis.

He couldn't watch Athos in this state. He couldn't watch Porthos take care of him with such ease. He couldn't watch d'Artagnan's hero worship or Tréville's obvious pain.

The air became suffocating, the room too warm and too small all of a sudden.

He couldn't stay.

So he bolted.

He didn't want to. He couldn't leave Athos alone. Not now. He didn't want to either. He wanted to be there for him, to support him and care for him, to make sure he lived and got better, but he couldn't do it.

He didn't go far, the guilt kicking in as soon as the door closed behind him. He stood out on the balcony, bracing himself against the wooden bannister. His heart beat hard and fast, and he breathed in deeply. He could breathe here, despite the heavy reality that still lay behind that door. Breathing felt an unfair luxury.

He almost turned and went back inside, but he couldn't find the strength to do so. He was useless anyways. He had tried everything he knew, then guessed, might help Athos. It had been to no avail. Athos was dying and nobody could do anything about it.

Aramis' fingers dug like claws into the wood.

He refused to let Athos go without a fight. He refused. In the past few months, Athos had been doing so well He drank less, his dark moods overcame him less frequently — he had been fit and healthy, more so than Aramis had ever seen him before. Athos was strong and Athos was good, and now he was being eaten alive by this accursed illness.

It wasn't fair.

Athos deserved so much better.

He deserved a heroic death, immortalised in song and bound in ink for future generations to treasure. Or at the very least, he deserved a quick and clean death.

Oh if d'Artagnan had only shot him for real! If that had been Athos' death! Just a few weeks ago they had faked Athos' death for Milady's benefit. Bleeding out in the streets of Paris over some minor squabble might not seem worthy of a great swordsman, but at least that time Athos had died in the arms of his friends, at least he had died without any prior suffering.

Dead within a few minutes — too good to be true!

The reality was cruel and drawn out.

Aramis shouted his frustration out across the courtyard, glad there was nobody else around. The shadows were lengthening, the sun setting somewhere beyond the walls and abandoning them all to another night of fear and frustration.

Not that the daytime was any better. There was no light here any more. They were encapsulated in perpetual darkness, abandoned and alone. They tried, they tried so hard to make their friendship be their light, but they were failing miserably. No man-made light could penetrate this gloom. They were powerless.

And the One who had the power to end it was indifferent to Athos' suffering.

Where was God now? Why had he abandoned them?

Athos was a good man, a sinner, certainly, but a repentant one. Aramis had seen him, had watched him prostrate himself countless times. He was an excellent soldier, a friend, a servant to the crown, and most of all a moral and considerate man.

He was not being punished. Aramis had told him he was not being punished, that God was merely testing him.

But why would God test him like this?

Had Athos not shown himself to be good?

God had the power to end his suffering. Why did he not have the mercy?

_Why?_

He punched the bannister. Of course that was about as effective as anything else he had done over the past week. Athos always threw the better punches. Or had done so when he was still the master of his own hands.

Athos was a fine man. Handsome, smart, and strong. And all his sharp mind did was give him a better understanding of the disastrous end he faced. All his strength did was heighten the pain as his muscles plotted to kill him. Oh Athos was blessed. He had been born into riches, with everything any man could ever want at his disposal. And now he was dying in a ditch.

"Aramis?"

"Captain."

He tried to keep his tone neutral. How had he not heard the door? How was Tréville suddenly next to him?

Tréville sighed heavily and leaned against the bannister next to Aramis. They stood in silence for several minutes, both looking out over the darkening courtyard, lost in their own thoughts.

Aramis was anxious. He had no desire to explain himself. He didn't think he could face Tréville's utter disappointment in him. The captain didn't know what Athos knew, but he still had perfectly good reasons to be frustrated with his failures.

Tréville scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed again.

"I have never come so close to killing one of my men," he said.

Aramis could not suppress a derisive huff at that. _Twenty-one musketeers._

"Not with my hands," Tréville clarified. "With my orders, but never my hands."

He sounded so tired, looking at his hands like they were dipped in blood.

Aramis could have told him that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have known, that nobody could have foreseen the severity of the spasm, that it was the unpredictable nature of tetanus that had caused this and not his touch.

But Tréville knew that.

And it made no difference.

"I would go back," Aramis said instead. "If you sent me to Savoy again, I would go."

He said it softly, but firmly. He trusted Tréville, with his own life and with theirs.

Tréville nodded.

"Thank you."

They stood in silence again. Eventually, Tréville spoke.

"If Athos..."

"He won't."

"Of course."

Aramis was not upset with Tréville. It was his duty as their captain to plan, to think ahead, to adjust to the unfathomable. It was Aramis' prerogative as a friend to ignore it, even if his mind strayed occasionally.

"You have done well by him," Tréville said.

Aramis wanted to reply that he hadn't achieved anything, that he had only made it worse, that he had failed. But some part of him knew that he could not claim the blame for himself after he had given Tréville absolution. Neither one of them had any power over the disease and it felt preposterous to claim otherwise. But there was still something... the distinct feeling that he should have been capable of doing wore, that he had not done well at all.

Aramis hung his head. He didn't trust himself to speak without his voice — and his resolve — breaking.

"Have you sought reconciliation?"

It took Aramis a moment to realise what he meant. Not reconciliation with Athos. Reconciliation with God. The Sacrament of Penance. Confession.

_Quorum remiseritis peccata remittuntur eis quorum retinueritis detenta sunt._

Aramis shook his head.

Tréville sighed and brushed a hand across his face.

"Unburden yourself," he said, giving Aramis a soft clap on the shoulder and a sad little smile before turning to leave. Once again there was so much more in those words. More than even Tréville realised.

Go home, prodigal son, go back to church, go back to God...

Leave behind the soldier, the medic, the friend, the failure... confess and wash away your sins.

Forgive and be forgiven.

_No._

Aramis stared out into the gathering gloom, the dim light from the kitchen making the shadows flicker ominously.

This time Aramis heard the door open and close. He felt both irrationally grateful and bereft that Porthos did not try to touch him. He had to fight hard enough to keep his emotions in check. He would not be able to bear an embrace without falling to pieces.

"Is he..."

_Breathing? Well? Dead?_

Aramis did not dare to finish his question. His throat seemed to clench around that last word.

Porthos leaned against a pillar and ran his fingers through his hair.

"He is resting," he said. "He is... he's in pain, but he's... he's breathing steadily. He had a bit of wine and he... anyways, he's resting now."

"Did he say anything?"

"No, he's... he opened his eyes though," Porthos answered. For the first time since all of this had started, he sounded tired. "He's hanging on, Aramis."

Until the next spasm...

Until he's once again tossed about like a ragdoll. Until God decides he's in for another round of agony.

Aramis manfully suppressed the tears.

How many days, hours, minutes of hanging on? How much longer? How soon would Athos...?

"Relax, _mon ami_."

Aramis almost laughed, a harsh and bitter thing, because how could he relax? How could anybody relax in the face of _this_?

Aramis realised he was trembling and he was panting for breath. It was too much and not enough all at the same time.

"You're not doing yourself any favours, _mon cher_."

And then there was a warm and steady hand on his back and it was definitely too much now and he shuddered, drawing in a shaky breath. God had forsaken him, but Porthos was still here and real and warm, and Aramis clung to it, to Porthos' presence.

He didn't move, simply stood there clutching the bannister and trying desperately to calm himself. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. This wasn't about him. This was about being there for Athos.

"Aramis..."

Porthos' voice was achingly gentle. He shouldn't be out here, he should be with Athos. He had to be with Athos. Athos needed Porthos so much more. It was selfish of Aramis to claim him for himself.

"Take the evening off, Aramis."

"No," Aramis gasped. He couldn't possibly leave Athos alone. Not now, not like this.

"We've all been away," Porthos said reasonably. "D'Artagnan and me, we've had our time away. You've barely left that room in the past week."

"I can't..." Aramis said and looked up. He knew he was panicking, he was being irrational. Porthos' face was a carefully composed mask.

"It's Wednesday," he said. It took Aramis a moment to catch the meaning behind his words.

Right. Wednesday. He had a life on Wednesday, every Wednesday — a long-standing appointment. Not today though. He couldn't. Not when Athos...

"Go," Porthos said. "We'll hold the fort here."

"I can't," Aramis repeated. He couldn't go there, not today.

"Go and get yourself sorted out," Porthos said. His smile had never looked so wrong. "You're no good like this."

"What if..."

"He won't," Porthos said firmly.

"You can't know that."

"I don't," Porthos admitted. "But I know you need a breather."

Rationally, Aramis knew he was right. He was no use to anybody just now. Emotionally, he was afraid... How typical of him to be otherwise engaged when his friends needed him the most. But he knew he couldn't go back in there, not yet, not when all he wanted to do was shout and rage against God. Nobody needed him like this.

He needed to breathe.

He straightened his shoulders and looked up at Porthos. Porthos nodded gravely and held out his sword and hat to him. Aramis hadn't even noticed them.

He forced that persistent lump down his throat and composed his features into something resembling his usual mask. He would simply be... Aramis. Aramis on a Wednesday night, out to find his entertainment.

Porthos had brought everything, even his boots. He didn't even need to go back inside. It was all so easy; slipping back into his uniform, into his normal life, into the persona he had built for himself. It was effortless.

Porthos looked at him as Aramis turned to leave.

"Give my regards to _Madame Mercredi,"_ he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations
> 
> Jamais être pris vivant —"Never to be taken alive" grammatically not entirely correct motto of the chasseurs alpins, the elite mountain infantry of the French Army. If you think you've heard that before, you are quite right. They have two mottos, the other being Sans peur et sans Reproche.
> 
> Bayard — le bon chevalier sans peur et sans reproche ("the good knight without fear and beyond reproach") Pierre Terrail Seigneur de Bayard (1473-1524) a famed French military leader known for his impeccable character, his courage, as well as his exploits as one of the most magnificent cavalry commanders of all time. Died in Italy in the midst of his enemies. His last words are directed at a former friend who had switched sides and was attending to him. The book Tréville is reading is "La très joyeuse, plaisante et récréative histoire du bon chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, le gentil seigneur de Bayart" ("The very joyous, pleasant, and entertaining history of the good knight without fear and beyond reproach, the kind Lord of Bayard") written by Le Loyal Serviteur ("The Loyal Servant") commonly assumed to be his private secretary Jacques de Mailles. It was originally published in the 16th century, but I can only find an 1882 version on .fr — in that one the formidable death scene is on page 427.
> 
> Maréchal de France — Marshal of France, currently the highest military distinction in France, at the time the second highest after Marshal General of France. According to Dumas, d'Artagnan actually achieves this distinction eventually, albeit briefly. Excuse the painful reminder, book fans.
> 
> Psalm 8, 4-5 — What is man, that you are mindful of him? And the son of man that you should care about him? For you have made him little lower than God, and crowned him with glory and honour.
> 
> Requiem æternam... — "Eternal rest grant unto him, oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace. Amen."
> 
> Quorum remiseritis peccata remittuntur eis quorum retinueritis detenta sunt — "Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them: and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained." John 20,23
> 
> Madame Mercredi — "Mrs. Wednesday" nickname the others have given Aramis' long-standing Wednesday night appointment.


	7. Ne pas subir  (Do not give in)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello? Is there anybody out there? If there's anybody still following this story after my long hiatus, I bid you a most hearty welcome! Two months... oh dear... My sincere apologies! I won't bore you with sorry tales of what I have been up to, but I'm finally about to spend my first weekend at home since I posted the last chapter. Hooray! Now me and my wonderful beta Marigold Faucet are back on the case and the remaining three chapters won't take that long.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the fic to help you over Musketeers withdrawal if you have watched Season 3 already, or to keep you entertained during the invariable football delays if you are following along on the BBC like me.

The world outside seemed at odds with the tense atmosphere within the garrison. Outside those walls, everything was well. Life continued as normal. It was a beautiful evening, the balmy temperatures of late summer enhanced by a clear sky. A thunderstorm would have felt more appropriate. Then again, the noise of one would not help matters inside the garrison.

_Rue du Vieux-Colombier_ was busy. People went about their business as usual. Some were on their way home from their day’s work, heading for a warm hearth and an evening meal. Others were aiming for the inns and taverns that were slowly starting to fill.

Usually Aramis would leave his friends with the other revellers.

They would be walking down the road along with everybody else. He would be Aramis. He would smile at the women and nod to the men; he would share a laugh with his friends and squabble with them. Maybe they would find a Red Guard to antagonise. They would fit in with the crowd, normal people on a normal Wednesday night.

Nobody paid any particular attention to one moody musketeer. It was all so ordinary, the dogs barking, the children quarrelling... People went about their lives and back in Tréville’s office Athos was...

Aramis wanted to scream.

_Go and get yourself sorted out._

Porthos had sent him away and rightly so. He was no use to anybody now, unable to save his friend’s life. He had failed Athos. He had failed Tréville too, not holding him back in time, not keeping him from reliving his worst nightmares. He had failed d’Artagnan. The boy was broken, silent and crying, watching his friend, mentor and father figure in such a state without any reassurance or sympathy. And he had failed Porthos. Porthos who had dragged him out of his melancholia and back into life after Savoy. Porthos who he was now saddling with the responsibility of dragging all of them along while Aramis himself was being useless.

_You’re no good like this._

He knew what he was to Porthos — Aramis the libertine on the way to his usual Wednesday night pastime. Not a friend to be relied upon, not a medic who could be trusted to help when necessary. Good at shooting people, at loving them for a while and then letting them slip away.

Go and shove your manic cock into some willing mistress. Find your absolution and your worth in her warm bosom.

Aramis walked along the church still lost in his dark thoughts. _Rue du Vieux-Colombier_ merged into _Rue Saint-Sulpice_ , which was no less busy. He continued on his way, strangely detached from the life all around him.

The church bells startled him, chiming the passage of yet another hour. He needed to compose himself, to piece together the worn fragments of his usual joyous mask. For a moment he leaned against the stone plinth of the large cross that stood in front of Saint Sulpice and just breathed, watching a young priest usher a group of boys out of the door. They were laughing and chatting animatedly, bidding farewell after their lessons. The priests had recently started to gather the poor and the outcast on the streets for instruction in the Catholic faith. With the help of the bible, these children also learned to read and write. It was an admirable new practice. These boys would never feel ostracised in church and hampered by their lack of understanding. They were being given the foundations for a good life. Thanks to the priests, they would not struggle like Porthos who had painfully and slowly taught himself to read and who still faced so many challenges now.

Mainly challenges of Aramis’ making at the moment.

He should have stayed. He should have been there for Porthos, even if he was unable to do anything for Athos. But Porthos himself had sent him away.

_You’re no good like this._

He was here now, outside of that room, away from his friends in a search for distraction. He might as well go and find it now.

_Go and get yourself sorted out._

When Porthos had nothing else to say to him it must be bad... Porthos had stubbornly stayed with him after Savoy, no matter how hard Aramis had tried to push him away, but now it was Porthos sending him away.

Aramis pushed himself upright with a sigh. It was Wednesday after all. He should keep his usual appointment. He owed it to Porthos to at least follow his advice.

_Give my regards to Madame Mercredi._

Go, be the idiot we all know you to be, Aramis. And they didn’t even know how stupid he really was... Only Athos knew _that_. And Athos...

Aramis gritted his teeth as he straightened his back and gulped down the emotions that threatened to overtake him. No time for that now. Time for his Wednesday night appointment with the mysterious stranger his friends had christened _Madame Mercredi_.

“Good evening, René,” the priest said with a broad smile. “What a blessing it is to see you and on as beautiful a day as this!”

“ _Mon père_ ,” Aramis answered, his throat tight. He would _not_ embarrass himself in public, in the middle of Paris, in front of a busy church.

He was drawn into a tight embrace and tried to relax into it.

“Hello, old friend,” Aramis said, trying to sound his usual cheerful self.

“René?” the priest asked, a slight frown clouding his face. He had always insisted on calling Aramis by his first name, declaring a _nom de guerre_ a thin and useless veil to cover who God knew him to be. “What’s the matter?”

Aramis cursed himself for coming here. Of course Jean-Jacques would know. He had never been blinded by any of the carefully crafted lies and half-truths Aramis surrounded himself with.

When they had first started speaking five years ago, Aramis had been too burdened and broken to devote much energy to keeping his defences as impregnable as they usually were, and ever since he had treasured this sanctuary where he could simply be René. The musketeer, the medic, the libertine, he left them all at the doors of Saint Sulpice. He had never corrected his friends’ assumption that he went out to find distraction with a paramour. It was easier that way.

“René?” Jean-Jacques asked again, obviously concerned now. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

There was a gentle hand on his elbow and Aramis let himself be guided inside. Without thinking he dipped his fingers into the small water basin and crossed himself. The heavy door closed behind them and shut out the noise of Paris.

Aramis breathed in deeply.

It was a squat little church, not a particularly beautiful building, yet somehow it still managed to convey the peace and dignity of a grand cathedral. Aramis could breathe here, and breathing... breathing was important.

There were a few people dotted around the church, half-hidden in the darkness. There were candles in the small side chapels, but even combined with the altar lamp, the sign of the presence of Christ, they barely illuminated the vast space as night slowly fell around them.

They knelt and prayed in silence. Aramis fell effortlessly into the familiar rhythm of the words. Usually, prayer relaxed him almost instantly. No matter where he was, or what he had seen, it felt like coming home.

Today, his mind strayed, even as he silently mouthed the well-known words.

The children leaving the church, smiles on their faces... such a sharp contrast to the way in which he had slunk into the church. The priest giving people a chance at life, an enlightened, joyful life. And himself, the musketeer, the medic, dispatching people to hell with practiced efficiency.

Death to his enemies.

Death to those he loved.

Wherever he was, death followed.

And Aramis was tired of it, of leaving death in his wake. How blessed to bring life and enlightenment instead.

“What burdens you, René?”

The question startled him.

René. René was a young boy, a son and brother, a happy adolescent courting a beautiful maid. René was not a hardened soldier who would watch his friends die without trying to prevent it.

Many things burdened him... His friends dying on Good Friday, his friend dying today... Aramis looked up helplessly. He couldn’t find the words to tell his friend. They were friends, Jean-Jacques Olier and René d’Herblay; two young men living vicariously through each other. In another world they could have been companions, but not in this one where one was a priest and the other doubted God. The musketeer couldn’t possibly tell the priest what really burdened him.

“Would you like to go to confession instead?”

Aramis barely kept a bitter laugh from escaping him. Confession. That had been Tréville’s suggestion too.

Like that would solve anything.

Like that was even an option available to him.

He hadn’t entered a confessional in so long, wouldn’t even know where to start. Maybe God would simply smite him as soon as he attempted to defile that holy sacrament. Wouldn’t that be easier?

“I can’t,” he said eventually.

To confess you had to repent your sins and to stop committing them. He should be so lucky.

Jean-Jacques nodded gravely.

“Let’s keep it between the two of us then,” he said. “But as your friend, I’d very much like to know what has put you in such a state.”

Aramis attempted a smile, but the well-worn mask did not seem to fit.

“The usual,” he said. “Yearning for the bible rather than the sword.”

“One doesn’t keep you from the other.”

Aramis huffed out a grim laugh. If he only knew...

“Feels like I don’t succeed with either,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m torn between soldiering and religion and in the end neither wins.”

“You have a passion for both.”

“I have a passion for absolutely anything,” Aramis said bitterly. “Lover of everything, winner of none.”

“Is there a woman that has you so preoccupied?” the priest asked, his voice neutral. Somehow he always succeeded in being less judgemental than the others. _So much for men of the sword versus men of the book._

Aramis buried his face in his hands. That was not something he could possibly talk about. He was already putting Athos’ head on the line with that particular secret. He himself would face dismemberment for high treason. Athos, owing to his status, might get a choice between decapitation and the firing squad. Wasn’t that a lovely prospect? Assuming, obviously, that Athos didn’t...

“A man,” Aramis said, looking up through his fingers. Even Jean-Jacques raised an eyebrow at that.

“It’s Athos,” Aramis clarified, watching the second eyebrow shoot towards Jean-Jacques’ receding hairline.

Aramis scrubbed a hand across his face. At least his sense of humour had not failed him entirely just yet.

Jean-Jacques waited patiently.

“God knows you for who you are, René, you can veil your thoughts from me, but not from him,” he said.

They had been over this before. Time and again, Aramis needed that reminder. Time and again, he came to the church with his masks firmly in place. They were slipping and cracking now and no matter what Jean-Jacques said, Aramis knew that he needed no divine intervention to be able to see through this one easily.

“He is ill.” He sighed. “Very badly so.”

Jean-Jacques listened patiently as Aramis recounted the whole sorry tale. He was young, but his experience with pastoral care and prayerful contemplation granted him gravity far beyond his years. He interrupted rarely, offering no opinion, solely asking for clarification where Aramis had left out details.

When his tale reached the events of the afternoon, Aramis spoke through gritted teeth, pausing frequently in his account of the horror they had all endured. He fell silent after telling of his departure from the garrison, once again burying his face in his hands.

Jean-Jacques remained silent; giving Aramis what time he needed to compose himself. Not that he needed to compose himself. Here, in the safety of the dark church, he didn’t need to be strong; he didn’t need to be Aramis. For the first time since Athos had been taken ill, he felt like he could breathe freely. The faint scent of incense and melting wax hung in the air. It felt peaceful, so far removed from his reality.

He felt safe here.

“Can I stay?”

Jean-Jacques smiled, but shook his head. This was not the first time Aramis had made that request.

“The church is not an escape from the world, René,” he said. “It is a path towards the farthest realms of faith. A path that should be chosen for its inherent value, not based on rejection of the perceived alternative.”

They had discussed this more than once, but the verdict remained the same. As long as he was still running away from the world rather than towards God, he would be refused. Of course he could go elsewhere. Few people refused him what he wanted, and he knew that any monastery would take him gladly.

Maybe he should go, join a monastery, finally make his family happy, and maybe, possibly, even himself.

_To send souls to heaven rather than their bodies to hell._ It sounded like a dream to him. And a dream it would remain, unachievable, carried away on a breeze, dissolving in the light of day.

“What tortures you so?” Jean-Jacques asked.

Aramis looked up sharply. What _didn’t_ torture him about all this?

“You carry a strong guilt, one that seems to bear no relation to Athos’ suffering,” his friend clarified.

“He nearly died today,” Aramis hissed. “And I did nothing!”

“You are a medic, René,” the priest answered. “Not God.”

“Well, God is not doing a very good job!”

Aramis bit his tongue as soon as the words had left his mouth. That was not something one should ever say, least of all to a priest.

However, the priest next to him seemed neither shocked nor offended at his outburst. On the contrary, he hummed appreciatively and asked in a tone of genuine curiosity.

“And what makes you the judge of that?”

Aramis dug his fingers into the dark wood of the pew. The pain grounded him.

“Athos’ suffering,” he ground out.

“That is a heavy burden for any loyal friend to carry,” the priest acknowledged. “But do not despair. _Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him.”_

“A trial.” Aramis scoffed at the word. He might have said that about a patient, but not a friend. “This has gone beyond a test of perseverance.”

He turned in his seat to face the man at his side.

“He’s a good man and yet he’s made to suffer like this,” he exclaimed, barely managing to keep his voice at a sharp whisper. “You wouldn’t make a horse endure such torture, you’d sooner shoot it! But God shows him no mercy.”

Aramis punched the pew and once again the impact was not satisfactory, the slight sting of his knuckles no adequate outlet for his fury. Jean-Jacques gave him some time to quieten down before he spoke again.

“ _They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. Going they went and wept, casting their seeds. But coming they shall come with joyfulness, carrying their sheaves.”_

Neither his friend’s steady voice nor the familiar words of the psalm were able to bring comfort to Aramis. They failed to permeate his soul entirely.

Aramis looked straight ahead at the image of the crucified Christ in front of them. Agony was chiselled into the features of the wooden figurine; even the Son of God had suffered so much. What chance did mere men stand? What hope for any of them? And yet...

It hurt.

To lose hope, to lose faith, to no longer believe that those tears would be dried and turned into joy by harvest time...

That was painful.

“God’s promises of healing never fail,” the priest said calmly.

And Aramis wanted that hope. God only knew how much he wanted to feel it, to believe it, to have that to hold onto. But in his mind, he saw Athos the way he had left him, that shrunken, trembling form cradled against Porthos’ broad chest, barely able to draw breath. There was nothing left of his tranquil friend, his strength withered in the dark watches of the night, his composure lost to the relentless assault of the spasms.

Aramis felt the tears well up.

“He’s...” he started, but had to stop to force down the lump in his throat. The sentence came out in a whisper. “He’s dying.”

The others would have embraced him at that point, would have pulled him into bone-crushing hugs. Jean-Jacques put a gentle hand on his.

“We may boldly ask that his healing take place here on earth, but if the Lord decrees that he shall...”

Aramis shook his head vehemently. He would not listen to another saying the words that had tasted like poison on his lips.

“This is Athos we are talking about,” he said, attempting to master his voice into something resembling resolve. “He doesn’t just...”

He broke off again. There was nothing _just_ about any of this.

“This might be beyond even his strength,” Jean-Jacques dared to say.

Aramis shook his head again. He wasn’t angry, he just knew that it wasn’t... or at least he hoped. If this was just a patient, any patient... but it wasn’t...

“This is Athos,” he said. “He never loses. Not to anyone but himself.”

“Much like you then,” Jean-Jacques said with a slight smile.

“This isn’t about me.”

“And you have been telling yourself that for far too long, René. For all that you deny it, you are a child of God, a man with fears and needs, no less than Athos.”

“I shouldn’t—” Aramis started, but Jean-Jacques interrupted him.

“You shouldn’t expect yourself capable of comprehending every step of God’s plan. Do not doubt the place you have. _We know that all things work together for the best unto them that love God.”_

Aramis gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers onto the wood so harshly he feared he might break the pew.

He didn’t know that. Not any more.

“I don’t matter in this,” he said.

“You matter to God,” Jean-Jacques said. Aramis doubted that.

“And for all that it’s worth,” the priest continued. “You matter to me. Think of Porthos and young d’Artagnan as well. You need each other, René, now more than ever, and particularly for what will be. Do not torture yourself unduly.”

_Go and get yourself sorted out. You’re no good like this._

“Nobody needs me,” Aramis said softly. “Porthos said so himself. I couldn’t...”

His mind dissolved into that frantic shout of _Do something!_

Something.

Anything.

_Aramis, do something!_

A hand on his arm brought him back to the present. Aramis looked up into the shining eyes of his friend. Jean-Jacques’ words were low and soothing.

“You are not a burden to them, just as they are no burden to you, even when they falter. You support each other in this.”

“I’m not supporting anybody,” Aramis protested. “I ran away...”

“And so did d’Artagnan.”

“But he is...”

“What, René? What is he that makes it acceptable for him to be affected, but not for you?”

Aramis had no answer.

They sat in silence for a long time, neither of them moving. Aramis kept his gaze fixed on the crucified Christ in front of them. Athos was no Jesus, not by any stretch of imagination, but in his suffering, the Saviour shared in what was happening back at the garrison, or so they were told. There was comfort in Christ’s suffering. There should be.

“How do we go on?” Aramis asked at length.

If the answer was _with faith_ , he’d run out of this church and do some damage to the nearest Red Guard or ten. He didn’t need... this. And yet... He needed something, he needed it desperately, like a rope thrown to a drowning man, but he couldn’t... he knew he couldn’t find comfort in religion just now.

So, apparently, did the priest.

“You go on as you have done, with the utmost care and love for one another. Men are not made to suffer in solitude. Open yourself up to your friends, be open for their hurts in return,” he said. “You have cared for Athos so diligently, but do not forget to care for yourselves.”

“You would have us give up on Athos?”

There was no anger left in his voice, and Aramis was too tired to chastise himself for that failure. Giving up, giving in... It was not in his nature; at least he had not thought so before Savoy... but maybe...

“Is it giving up to accept peace if the Lord deigns to give it to him?” Jean-Jacques asked, his voice once more completely devoid of judgement.

Aramis had asked God for mercy, had begged for it.

Prayers were always answered, though not necessarily in the way imagined or desired. Was this to be the answer to his prayers?

Aramis was not ordinarily one to subscribe to the “toil in this life, joy in the next” philosophy some preachers favoured. He loved life. Every fibre of his being strove for joy, for fulfilment and new experiences. He did not see that as precluding an equally joyous existence in heaven.

But what joy had Athos known? Some, years ago, with the wife who betrayed him, and then whatever dregs of happiness he occasionally found at the bottom of a bottle.

“But he had gotten better,” he said; only realising that he was voicing his thoughts after the words had left his lips.

“The last few months,” he clarified. “Athos was... better.”

In his mind’s eye images appeared of shy, fleeting smiles, of occasional glances full of pride at d’Artagnan’s development, short, sharp memories of acerbic humour and quick wit. Athos had lived, and to some degree had found contentment in it.

“God’s healing takes many forms,” Jean-Jacques said and his smile was as warm as those recollections. _“_ _For my thoughts are not your thoughts: nor your ways my ways, says the Lord.”_

If tetanus was to be a remedy for Athos’ melancholia, then truly Aramis had no hope of following the Lord’s reasoning.

Maybe true healing could not be found in this life. Maybe Athos would never find true peace as long as he lived. Maybe...

Aramis shuddered. Jean-Jacques’ hand was there again, warm and gentle, calming him.

Grounding him.

“I’m not asking you to make a decision, René,” he said. “Merely to open your heart to whatever may come. You know better than I do that his suffering cannot continue forever. Whichever way the Lord decrees to end it... accept it.”

Accept death.

Sweet death.

An end to the spasms, an end to the agony, an end to them... but a relief from suffering. A whole week of constant pain, of very little sleep or food, a week of slow drops of water and wine administered with endless patience because it was the only way to keep him alive. Aramis could no longer distinguish between one spasm and the next. They all blended into one another, an endless series of bouts of torture.

Athos shaking.

Athos with tears in his eyes.

Athos arching on the bed.

Athos groaning, then screaming in agony.

Athos with his back bent to break.

Athos too weak to even voice his pain.

At this point, maybe death would be the easy way out. Maybe — no _,_ _certainly,_ it would be a relief, and maybe that also meant it was desirable. Maybe a man brought so low, unable to feed or clean himself, unable to speak, unable to move on his own behalf... maybe a man in such a state would truly welcome death. Maybe they were doing Athos a disservice by keeping him alive.

A choked sob escaped Aramis’ lips. He swallowed heavily around the lump in his throat, forcing down the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

Maybe death was mercy.

But somehow he was still Athos. Somewhere deep within the patient, there was still the man. There were glimpses of his dry sense of humour through the suffering; there was the quiet determination that not even the relentless assault of tetanus had been able to vanquish entirely.

Acceptance.

Acceptance of suffering, acceptance of an end to suffering, whatever shape that may take. What caused such turmoil in Aramis’ mind seemed to come naturally to Athos himself. Given what had happened earlier, given the utter failure of all their attempts to soothe the pain, maybe Jean-Jacques was right, maybe acceptance was obligatory.

Aramis had lost track of the time, but when he bade his friend farewell at the steps of Saint-Sulpice, the night was dark and the streets near empty. The few people that remained on the roads were moving swiftly, eager to reach their homes. Aramis himself felt calmer, almost ready to face his return to the garrison. Whatever he was about to return to, he felt better equipped to handle it.

Together they could deal with this; maybe together they could even accept it.

Jean-Jacques gave him a warm smile.

“Do not fear, René,” he said. “ _God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind."_

The words stayed with Aramis as he walked across the churchyard and down the road.

Power.

Love.

A sound mind.

They had the love, definitely; they could do that. They all loved Athos; loved him fiercely and guarded him jealously. And he let them love him, though he had little choice but to accept their care and affection. Maybe, possibly, he was actually benefitting from it as well. There had been slight approximations of smiles; there had been some appreciative words when he still had the strength.

Power, however... power was a difficult one. He had felt powerless, completely helpless in the face of the overwhelming reality of tetanus. But what was power? They had no power to heal Athos, no power to lessen his pain, but Aramis no longer felt entirely impotent. While there was little to be done for Athos’ body, they could still care for his mind; they could be there for him and accompany him on this journey. And wherever it may lead, they would follow him to the end, they would as much as possible show acceptance.

A sound mind, now Aramis was certainly closer to that after his visit to Saint-Sulpice. He could breathe again, the clench of the guilt and horror having eased somewhat. He felt in his right mind now, still hurt, but also composed. He could go back, he could face all of this again and he could see it through to its conclusion.

Having been in no mood for a leisurely evening meal, he returned earlier than he usually did on a Wednesday night. Nevertheless, the garrison lay in unusual darkness and silence. On a mild night such as this, there would normally be a few musketeers in the courtyard at any time. Tonight, there was only a faint flicker of light and the soft murmur of voices emanating from the kitchen.

Aramis hesitated, one foot on the bottom step. He could go to the kitchen. Maybe they knew, maybe they could tell him if... He shook his head, dislodging the thought, and slowly climbed the stairs. They seemed both longer and steeper than before.

It felt an age ago now, but Aramis was reminded of Athos being helped up these stairs by Porthos and d’Artagnan. It would have seemed odd to Athos to struggle with so basic a task — annoying perhaps, possibly embarrassing. But he hadn’t known... Aramis had. At least he had known the name of what ailed Athos, though that did not prepare him for what was to come.

He lingered on the landing, straining his ears and eyes to try and get a hint of what was happening inside Tréville’s room. The only sound he could hear was the scraping of chairs and the clink of cutlery from downstairs. No light, no sound; surely that was a good sign? It meant they were still taking care not to trigger Athos’ spasms and if everything had remained dark and silent in the room, then Athos was still alive.

Or they were holding a dark and silent vigil.

He hadn’t been gone long, but dead could be quick, _merciful_ , and if Athos had died... Aramis tried to force down his panic. _Deep breaths._ Athos wasn’t dead. If he had died, there would be more activity now, there would be a priest being called, and there would be people coming to mourn him.

Or Porthos and d’Artagnan were grieving in silence.

Maybe it had just happened. Maybe they were waiting for him to give him a chance to say his adieu.

He shouldn’t have stayed away for so long.

But he had needed the time away. He could not have done anything to ease Athos’ passing. It did nobody any good if he tortured himself now.

Maybe Athos was still alive.

Aramis threaded his fingers through his hair. All he had to do was open that door and see for himself, but somehow the simple act seemed an impossible challenge to him. He pulled his hair sharply, making his scalp sting. It shouldn’t be that difficult. They were his friends; he wanted to be with them, he wanted to know, yet...

He spun around at the sound of the kitchen door opening. Soft firelight flooded the dark courtyard and Aramis drew back into the shadow. For a moment the voices were louder, though he still couldn’t make out any words, then the door clicked shut again.

He recognised Porthos’ broad shape immediately. Porthos stretched his back and rolled his shoulders, before slowly making his way up the stairs, carrying a heavy jug and humming softly to himself.

Porthos was humming a bawdy tavern song and Aramis was panicking over opening a door. Porthos was obviously coping fine without him. At least one of them was coping. Aramis drew back further, but he knew that there was no escape. Porthos was bound to see him. And then what?

Porthos rounded the corner. Aramis couldn’t see his face in the gloom, but he could see the slight twitch when Porthos realised that he wasn’t alone, and then the instantaneous release of the tension and the spreading of a big grin.

“You’re back,” Porthos said. Not surprised, not accusing, just genuinely happy to see him. He covered the last few paces in two big steps and pulled Aramis into a fierce embrace.

Aramis melted into his friend’s arms, ignoring the ice-cold water that was seeping into his clothes from where his back had collided with the flagon in Porthos’ hand. He was home.

_God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind._

“Better?” Porthos asked, his voice so low it was only a low grumble in his chest, more movement than sound.

“Better,” Aramis confirmed. “Athos?”

He could feel Porthos’ sigh against his ear and then the hug tightened.

Aramis stiffened in the embrace.

Porthos gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“He’s alive.”

Aramis pushed away from Porthos slightly and scrubbed a hand across his face.

“Good,” he said. “Good.”

He had to repeat it, whether to convince himself or Porthos, he didn’t know.

After a slight pause, Porthos nodded. Then he took a step back and leaned against one of the wooden pillars.

“Did you know Tréville forbade him to commit suicide?” he said without preamble.

Aramis braced himself against the bannister, looking out into the darkness like he had some hours before. He could not bear to face Porthos for that conversation. He nodded jerkily. It was no secret that Athos had been in a bad place when he first joined the regiment. Tréville, with his great knowledge of men, had only allowed him to become a musketeer after Athos had sworn never to throw away his life needlessly. If it had been anything like the day when Aramis himself had had to take that oath, he had done so with no small measure of regret.

“Tonight has been bad,” Porthos said, dropping his head against the wood with an audible thud. “He’s in so much pain... And Tréville, he came back and he saw him and... “ His voice had dropped to a whisper. “He said he wouldn’t blame him now, that it was only natural to give in.” Porthos cleared his throat. “He said that to wish him life now was to wish him ill.”

Aramis dropped his head into his hands. These were no new thoughts, but to hear Porthos voice them, to hear that Tréville had said this... it made it real.

“Whatever the Lord decides,” Aramis said at length. “We have to accept it.”

After a few moments of silence, Porthos sighed deeply and pushed himself upright.

“For now he’s alive,” he said, once again squeezing Aramis’ shoulder.

Aramis turned to face him.

“And we are here for him,” he said.

Porthos nodded.

“Have you eaten?” he asked and Aramis could picture the critical look in his eyes despite the darkness.

“Yes,” he lied.

“Good,” Porthos said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “She always takes good care of you.”

Aramis just nodded. It wasn’t that Jean-Jacques was a shameful secret, it wasn’t that he had anything to hide from his friends, but somehow his Wednesday nights were private. They were something pure and clean to wash away the blood and mud when it became too much.

Apparently satisfied that Aramis was as well as he could be, Porthos steered him into Tréville’s room before Aramis had a chance to protest or even think about what to expect on the inside.

The candles had burned low, and d’Artagnan looked tired, but he smiled at them.

“Good to have you back,” he said. “Did you have a good evening?”

Aramis shrugged.

In one swift move, d’Artagnan got up and draped his arm across Aramis’ shoulder.

“Know the feeling,” he said. “I was the same. It’s not like you can really get away. Your mind is always kind of... and you want to come back, but you don’t. We’ve managed all right here, though. I’ve just been telling Athos... well, things...”

The way his voice caught at the end, Aramis was reasonably sure that _things_ was closely related to _Constance_ , but he didn’t say anything. He let his young friend guide him towards the bed. There they stood and looked at Athos, d’Artagnan’s arm still slung across Aramis’ shoulders. Athos lay still, muscles rigid, but not contracting, eyes staring up at them unseeingly. He looked like a ghost, pale and somehow not quite there, leaving them already. Porthos came to stand behind them, and somehow the presence of his friends comforted Aramis. They were in this together; they were here for Athos, no matter where his path might lead.

“Did anything happen while I was downstairs?” Porthos asked.

“No change,” d’Artagnan replied. “He hasn’t moved at all, not even his eyes.”

“Took a bit longer than expected,” Porthos said. “They all wanted to know how you are doing, Athos. Whole bunch of them in the kitchen and all thinking of you.”

Silence fell between the four of them, but it was not the usual, comfortable silence of long rides and late nights. This silence hung heavily between them. Nevertheless, Aramis was glad he had returned. With d’Artagnan and Porthos crowded so close around him, he felt safe. There was nobody he’d rather have at his side for this.

“I count each breath,” d’Artagnan said at last.

_Because I fear that each breath might be his last,_ Aramis completed in his mind.

And would that be so bad?

Even after his conversation with Jean-Jacques, Aramis struggled with the notion that healing might only be found in heaven. But he could not ignore the evidence in front of him. Athos looked thoroughly miserable and it was undeniable that he was suffering far beyond what anyone should have to bear.

Listening to his breaths, Aramis noticed how uneven they were, hasty pants followed by deep gasps for air, with no recognisable rhythm. It was so unlike Athos. Athos’ breathing was always measured, always controlled. Athos treasured control and discipline almost above everything else. For him to breathe so raggedly, he had to be far gone indeed.

Perhaps they should have given him his pistol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations
> 
> Ne pas subir —“Do not give in”, though actually the proper English translation has been the subject of some debate. Other suggestions include “Never surrender”. It’s the motto of the French 2nd Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment stationed in Réunion. Furthermore, the motto of Jean de Lattre de Tassigny, a French general and (posthumously) Maréchal de France, also the French representative at Berlin on the 8th of May 1945, with Eisenhower, Zhukov and Montgomery.
> 
> Rue du Vieux Colombier — Street in Paris where the musketeers’ garrison is located. Still exists and carries the same name today.
> 
> Saint Sulpice — Church on the eponymous street, local church to the garrison. Not the church that’s there today, a much smaller and simpler one stood there in the 17th century. I’ll post pictures on my Tumblr.
> 
> Mon père — literally “my father”, honorific for a priest
> 
> Jean-Jacques Olier — 1608-1657, priest at Saint Sulpice, founder of the Sulpicians, a great advocate for the poor and the outcast, and a favoured advisor for Queen Anne of Austria. Have a look at his Wikipedia entry, he’s a pretty fascinating historical character.
> 
> Nom de guerre — “war name”, an assumed name under which a person engages in combat or some other activity or enterprise, “Aramis” instead of his birth name René d’Herblay.
> 
> James 1:12 — “Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him”
> 
> Psalm 126: 5-6 — “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. Going they went and wept, casting their seeds. But coming they shall come with joyfulness, carrying their sheaves.”
> 
> Romans 8:28 — “We know that all things work together for the best unto them that love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.”
> 
> Isaiah 55:8 — “For my thoughts are not your thoughts: nor your ways my ways, says the Lord.”
> 
> 2 Timothy 1:7 — "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind"


	8. Au-delà du possible  (Beyond what is possible)

Athos was eerily quiet.

He did not cough any more, not when they were giving him water or as he struggled for breath; his body too weak for such a simple defence.

There was so little, so little of everything.

For several days they’d had no success in feeding Athos and he barely took enough water to subsist. His breathing was shallow and laboured. He had not spoken at all since that dreadful day when his breathing had stopped altogether. There seemed to be hardly any lucid moments left for Athos. What little energy remained to him was turned inwards waging fierce war against an invisible, but no less vicious foe.

It might be a losing battle, but at least it was still a fighting retreat. And as they had learned to expect from Athos, it was a meticulously ordered one.

There was nothing remotely dignified about Athos’ situation, but even terrified and in excruciating pain, Athos maintained a serenity that betrayed little of the desperation he must feel.

Aramis had seen plenty of men die, in the field, on the table, and a lucky few on their actual deathbed. Death was ugly. He was used to seeing grown men scream and cry for their mothers, their lovers and friends. He had heard them beg for the _coup de grâce._ Athos’ calm and quiet in the face of death however... Aramis had only ever seen that once before

He chose to interpret it as a sign that Athos had found some peace at last.

He refused to see it as a sign that Athos had given up.

They kept Athos alive—somehow, barely—according to whatever incomprehensible divine plan was being played out here. They were nought but pieces on a chessboard and God had seen fit to make Athos their king. A king in check, but somehow avoiding capture move after move, avoiding that final checkmate.

And so Athos stayed alive.

This was Porthos’ home, the place he belonged, and they were his family. Porthos fought as fiercely as Athos, but though he kept repeating, _“Athos is strong”,_ Athos’ suffering physically pained him.

It pained them all.

They were all in this together though.

They had started to take turns going outside for a breath of fresh air, retrieving supplies as required. Mostly, those were much-needed breaks from the claustrophobic room to gather their senses. As much as they all wanted to stay close to Athos, they had to acknowledge their own needs. Aramis knew that he could not bear to see Porthos or d’Artagnan hurt any more than necessary, and suspected they felt the same. Tetanus had no set timeline and it would no longer do for them to completely neglect themselves.

Even though Aramis was reluctant to settle into a routine, seeing it as an acknowledgement that this situation had now become normal, they had finally established a system that allowed each of them to sleep for six hours—uninterrupted, if they were lucky— at night and go out for part of the day. They had set a schedule of overlapping six-hour watches, ensuring there were always two of them in the room with Athos while the third enjoyed three hours off duty.

They never lasted long on their excursions. Porthos had tried his hand at cards one night and returned after an hour, claiming that even if he won the Louvre itself, it would be no fun without Athos’ disapproving glare and exasperated sigh to come home to.

Porthos was out now, leaving d’Artagnan and Aramis to hold down the fort. Aramis sat by Athos’ bedside, perched on a chair, watching his friend. Athos lay motionless. Only his eyes roved back and forth ceaselessly.

It was the only sign of life in him.

The soft afternoon light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, diffuse and warm. It should have been a kind light, but the way in which it exposed Athos’ weakness made it cruel. Athos’ face had lost all colour and his skin looked oddly waxen. His muscles remained locked in a constant contraction even between spasms. He had always been slim, but now he seemed to consist only of skin stretched over bones and bone-hard muscles. His beard had grown long and unruly, the dark thicket a sharp contrast to the pallor of his skin.

It pained Aramis to see Athos like this, but he found himself unable to look away.

Those pale, unseeing eyes haunted him.

When they finally closed, he sat back and sighed, then immediately tensed again. Shuddering he focussed on the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of Athos’ chest.

“I know,” d’Artagnan said, stepping behind him and resting his hands on Aramis’ shoulders. “Whenever he closes his eyes, I can’t help but wonder when I’ll see them again... or if at all...”

Aramis nodded heavily, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He felt guilty for wanting those eyes to close, to stop... haunting him.

“It’s selfish, but I miss his eyes as soon as they are gone,” d’Artagnan continued. Aramis agreed whole-heartedly. As much as he could not bear Athos’ gaze, he couldn’t be without it either.

“It’s a war within him,” Aramis replied. “We must be patient.”

He knew it was futile. To tell d’Artagnan to be patient was pointless unless you were Constance or Athos.

“I wonder...” d’Artagnan started. Aramis’ heart clenched at how that sentence was bound to continue.

“It’s no surrender,” he said with finality.

“Not yet,” d’Artagnan said. “But maybe...” His hands clenched on Aramis’ shoulders before he started anew. “I wonder what happens afterwards, when it’s over? You say it’s like a war within him, so is he going to be the same by the end of it, or is his body like a country ravaged by war?”

Aramis shook his head vehemently, happy to be the bearer of good news for once.

“No _politique de la terre brûlée_ ,” he answered. “Once the poison burns itself out, tetanus beats a retreat and leaves no trace behind. Recovery is complete.”

“Good,” d’Artagnan said simply.

“It’s rare,” Aramis cautioned.

“I know,” d’Artagnan answered. “But it gives him something to look forward to.” He paused. “Athos... he’d hate it, see it as weakness. So it’s good, you know? Good that he has a chance to be normal again.”

“It’s a slim chance,” Aramis said softly, hoping Athos couldn’t hear him. “Don’t put your hopes in it.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan said again, giving Aramis’ shoulder a squeeze. “But he’s got us. And we’ve got each other.”

They did.

They were working together; they were in this battle together.

If there was one thing they did not have too little of, it was love.

D’Artagnan had started to drag himself away from Athos’ side even when he was on watch, unable to sit still any longer, unable to keep doing nothing. He was sitting at Tréville’s desk, whittling away at a small piece of wood, when Porthos returned.

“What did you get up to?” Aramis asked, carefully marking his place in the book he was reading before he looked up.

“Nothing much,” Porthos answered, handing d’Artagnan an apple.

“Are you bleeding?” d’Artagnan asked, narrowing his eyes.

Aramis was on his feet and at the desk in an instant.

A small amount of dried blood underneath Porthos’ nose, the beginnings of a bruise.

“What did you get up to?” Aramis repeated his earlier question, reaching out to touch his friend’s face.

Porthos shrugged and turned away from him.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Nothing he couldn’t handle. Of course not. Never. Porthos could handle himself in—a bar fight, an attempted robbery, whatever this had been. Still, he shouldn’t have to handle things alone.

“Just let me—“

“No,” Porthos interrupted him. “Don’t worry.”

He sounded tired. Aramis wanted to banish that tiredness, wanted his jovial, insurmountable Porthos back, but...

“Just a silly little thing,” Porthos said, dabbing at the blood with his handkerchief. He turned his back on them, settling onto his bedroll to sleep through the rest of his time off-duty.

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. _”A silly little thing”_ he mouthed. Aramis shrugged.

“You should have seen the other guy,” he murmured under his breath.

At least that made d’Artagnan smile. It was also true, more likely than not. No matter how gentle he was around his friends, Porthos was still a man of incredible strength. That force, once unleashed, was a sight to behold, and so were the effects it had on any opponent’s body.

Porthos relieved d’Artagnan an hour later and Aramis decided to let the matter rest. Who was he to judge what a man did to find some relief? They all had their own coping strategies.

_For God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind._

They did not even know what triggered this latest full-body spasm. They were so careful now. No noise, no light, no touch, and still Athos’ body convulsed.

In an instant, Aramis and Porthos were on their feet and d’Artagnan was scrambling to free himself from his bedroll as they watched Athos’ muscles tighten once more. Within moments, Athos was arching off the bed again.

So sudden and violent was that spasm that Aramis’ mind went immediately back to that dreadful day when Athos stopped breathing. Just like that day, the spasm kept curving Athos’ spine further and further backwards, with all the force of the breaking wheel. Just like that spasm, this one never ended, it only worsened.

It was painful to watch Athos’ already emaciated body be tortured even further. The war for Athos life had culminated in yet another brutal battle.

And Aramis could see where this was leading.

Athos would not survive.

This was the end.

He couldn’t survive another episode of choking.

“No!” Porthos roared beside him, the sound barely louder than the rush of blood in Aramis’ ears.

Porthos covered the few feet to the bed in a single stride, ready to help, but Aramis hesitated.

Surely death was better than this.

Surely...

Aramis followed suit.

They did not leave a brother unaided in a fight, no matter how desperate the odds. As much as he would not blame Athos should he give in eventually, Aramis could not leave him to his fate.

_For God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power and of love._

Porthos leaned over the bed, trying to hold down Athos’ jerking body and Aramis joined him. Athos would not lose this battle yet, not while they could still help him fight.

They had to keep him from arching so far back that he choked again. They had to keep his throat from closing up on him again. They had to keep him on the bed. They had to keep Athos alive.

They had to...

They had to...

Aramis had been so sure that he had made his peace with Athos’ death if that was to be the way this ended. Since that evening with Jean-Jacques, he had prayed for peace, for understanding and healing. He had prayed and prayed and prayed, and he had thought he’d accepted that healing might happen in this life or the next, had almost welcomed death only to see an end to the torture... but now he pushed his friend’s body down onto the bed with all his force, desperate to delay what seemed inevitable.

While Athos had no choice in facing this foe, maybe not even a choice in succumbing to it, Aramis had made his choice. This fight was not yet over. Next to Aramis, Porthos’ jaw was set as he tried desperately to keep Athos still, tears running down his face as he did so.

Was it God’s will that Athos should die?

Or was it His will that they possessed the strength to deny death this victory?

Both of them had their hands on Athos’ body, each holding down one of his arms, keeping his upper body still. Trying to. Trying everything to keep his shoulders on the bed, trying to somehow keep him from choking. Athos’ muscles were tight as drums under Aramis’ hands, hard and unforgiving. There was so much life left in his tortured body, and they had an obligation to keep it that way. They were soldiers, trained to fight; they were brothers, devoted to fight for each other.

_For God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power._

Athos still had them.

They could do this.

They had to.

Porthos’ fingers slipped on sweat-slicked skin. He renewed his efforts, using more force. Behind them, Athos’ lower body thrashed in the violent grip of the spasm. Aramis was struggling to keep his grip. Beside him, he could feel Porthos shake with sobs, devastated to be using his strength against his friend.

And suddenly, a crack, like a musket.

Next to Aramis, Porthos fell, stumbling backwards and dropping heavily onto the floor.

Aramis looked up, for the moment distracted from his struggle with Athos. Porthos had no obvious injuries, although the incident had left him slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Aramis followed his glance and released his grip on Athos’ body as quickly as if he had been burned.

Reality was no less horrifying than his initial thoughts. Porthos was uninjured, but Athos...

Athos was not.

Athos’ right arm stuck out at an odd angle, obviously broken. Still his muscles strained, contorting his limbs into even more grotesque and wholly unnatural shapes, but he did not seem to register the added pain. His back arched, his head was pulled backwards, and his arm was bent ever more violently, not only at the elbow, but at the fresh break as well.

Aramis flinched backwards, unable to touch Athos, unable to hold him, unable to help him, unable to do anything but watch the dreadful illness continue its relentless torture.

D’Artagnan vomited.

Aramis couldn’t blame him. Even to an experienced soldier’s eyes, this was a disgusting tableau of violence.

Porthos was on his knees, shocked, staring helplessly at Athos. Aramis stood next to him, threading his fingers into Porthos’ curls. He cradled Porthos’ head in his arms, drawing Porthos’ face against his stomach, allowing him to avert his eyes.

If he couldn’t save Athos then at least he was going to help Porthos. If this was to be the end, then he would be there for Porthos like his friend had been there for him throughout all their years together.

D’Artagnan slung his arm across Aramis’ shoulders, his other hand resting on Porthos’ shoulder. Together they stood and watched.

If this was to be the end, at least they were in it together.

_God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of love._

Aramis felt tears running down his face and did not stop them.

He did not cry out of fear for what would be.

He cried out of love.

It was gruesome. The sheer violence of the spasm was only enhanced by their inability to intervene. The three of them stared, horrified and well aware of their utter lack of power. Elite soldiers outwitted and overpowered by a seemingly innocuous scratch.

A seemingly almighty foe.

It was a cold thought, its icy tendrils reaching into Aramis’ heart as deep as that night in the snowy forest all those years ago.

He was shaking.

Aramis felt warm and alive only where he was touching Porthos and d’Artagnan. Porthos’ body pressed up against his leg. D’Artagnan stood behind the two of them, his ragged breathing shuddering against Aramis’ back.

They were so close; one soul in three bodies, all equally horrified by what was unfolding in front of them, but also all equally determined to see this through together. There was warmth in that. There was life.

_Though one may be overpowered, two can withstand. And a threefold cord is not easily broken._

Aramis clung to them and they to him. That threefold cord, their bond, their friendship, seemed to be the only tangible remnant of what life used to be before they were all plunged into this fight for Athos’ life.

They stood like that for endless minutes.

By the end of it, when the spasms subsided enough to let Athos’ maltreated body drop back onto the bed, it was—to Aramis’ surprise—still a fight. There was life left in Athos. He was still breathing, though whether that was a blessing or a curse, Aramis could not tell.

They remained where they were, an unmoving triptych to friendship.

They had been through this so often, they all knew their roles; they knew what to do after a spasm. They should go, they should move, they should check on Athos and take care of him as best they could. Only they didn’t and it took Aramis a while to figure out why.

Porthos—

Porthos was still on his knees, bowed, unmoving.

It was always Porthos who approached Athos first; Porthos who recovered the fastest, who lead the charge, who was already working to ease Athos’ suffering before the rest of them had fully recovered their wits. Their strange routine depended entirely on Porthos.

Aramis let go of Porthos, but his friend did not move. His head snapped forwards, but not up to glance at Athos. Instead he stared down at his hands. His hands were in front of him, lifeless, as if detached from his body, spread wide, palms up. Porthos stared at them like they were foreign objects.

Aramis looked down at him, then over to Athos, and finally back at d’Artagnan. Two of his friends needed him desperately and he didn’t know whom to attend to first.

D’Artagnan was pale and gnawing ferociously on his lower lip, but he met Aramis’ glance without hesitation. In an instant, d’Artagnan had made the decision for him, nodding gravely at Aramis as he squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, pushing him down towards Porthos even as he himself fixed his gaze on Athos. D’Artagnan was a born commander, Aramis realised, understanding—maybe for the first time— why Athos kept insisting that the boy had it in him to be the greatest of them all.

Aramis dropped to his knees beside Porthos and tried to meet his eye. Porthos would not look up. He still stared unblinkingly at his hands.

Aramis knew what he saw there.

As soldiers they were seldom afforded the luxury of Pontius Pilate. The blood on their hands was more than an abstract concept, a mere allusion to perceived guilt. The blood they washed from their hands was the kind that remained visible for days, under every fingernail and in every pore. Aramis had washed it from Porthos’ hands before, as Porthos had done for him. But he had also seen this kind of blood on his own hands, the kind that neither soap nor boiling water could banish.

“Porthos...” Aramis said softly, for once at a loss for words.

Porthos did not respond, merely continued to stare at his hands in disgust. Aramis said nothing more, only sat there with him, his hand grasping his friend’s shoulder. It took several long minutes before the tension in Porthos’ body lessened and he let himself be dragged against Aramis’ body, burying his face in Aramis’ shoulder.

Aramis let him cry.

He rubbed slow, soothing circles on Porthos’ heaving back and waited. Tears soaked into his shirt, as well as into his beard. Slowly, Porthos’ sobs quietened and he looked up, his eyes red and swollen.

“You with me?” Aramis asked quietly, cupping Porthos’ wet cheek.

“Talk to me, Porthos,” Aramis encouraged.

“I...” Porthos started, then swallowed heavily. “Athos...”

“You were just trying to help.”

Porthos shuddered. His voice was unnaturally small and timid when he spoke again.

“I... I broke him.”

Aramis tightened his embrace. Figuratively speaking, there had been little left to break in Athos. What his wife hadn’t managed to break, the horror of tetanus had squashed quite thoroughly. But Porthos was not one for metaphors. And in the literal sense of the word there was little doubt that he had indeed broken Athos. The painful evidence was there for all to see.

“You tried to keep him from choking,” Aramis said in his most soothing tone. “You held him down, we both did.”

He wasn’t as good at this as Porthos. He never really had to be. They always had Porthos for these sort of conversations.

Porthos looked at him with even more profound sadness in his eyes.

“But you didn’t break his arm.”

Porthos twisted out of Aramis embrace and sat staring at his hands again.

“I’m a monster,” he said.

Porthos who was kind and caring, who was a giant in battle, but gentle as a lamb towards his friends; Porthos was many things, but never a monster.

“You are not,” Aramis replied. “Never, Porthos, don’t even think...”

“You said it yourself,” Porthos interrupted him. “We both held him. You didn’t break his arm.”

Aramis shook his head. “That doesn’t mean...”

Porthos flexed his arms. “Too big, too strong,” he said tonelessly. “I used too much force. I should have known better.”

“You are always so careful,” Aramis countered. “You are so gentle with him.”

It was easily done for a man of Porthos’ strength. A little too much force, putting too much pressure on a single bone... there was no malice in it, simply stupendous strength pitted against brittle bone. It was no surprise that Porthos could break arms like other people broke noses.

Porthos looked him straight in the eye. “I broke him, Aramis,” he said, his voice low but steady. “On top of all this, I took his sword arm away from him. I might as well have killed him.”

The words hung between them. Aramis swallowed heavily before he could think of any reply. He could not accept this, he wouldn’t.

“You nursed him, you took care of him. Without you he wouldn’t be alive today,” he said eventually. “He would have choked; he would have succumbed to dehydration. Without you, he would have died a dozen times over!”

Porthos cut him off with a shake of his head and a raised hand.

“Please,” he said, gesturing over to the bed where d’Artagnan was bent over Athos.

Aramis looked at him, looked at the dejection in his friend’s face, and he understood. Porthos asked him to do what he thought he couldn’t do himself, to go and take care of Athos. Giving Porthos’ shoulder a firm squeeze and pressing a soft kiss to his head, Aramis rose to his feet. They were not done here.

Athos lay motionless, his muscles still hard, but no longer contracted in spasm. His lower body was covered with a thin linen sheet, but his arms and chest were bare. D’Artagnan had probably cut the shirt off him. It wouldn’t be the first one. Athos’ body was so pale and fragile on the white sheets. He looked small and vulnerable, but he was breathing.

Aramis had to remind himself that that was a good thing, at the very least for Porthos’ sake. Porthos would never have forgiven himself if Athos died now.

D’Artagnan was sitting next to Athos, gently stroking his wild hair. When Aramis stood behind him, d’Artagnan attempted a smile, but it was a weak and timid thing.

“Has he woken at all?” Aramis asked, looking at d’Artagnan rather than Athos’ and his mangled arm.

D’Artagnan shook his head. “Not that I noticed,” he said.

Aramis nodded. It had become difficult to tell whether Athos was asleep, unconscious, or awake. At the moment he hoped it was not the latter, for what had been as much as for what he knew had to follow.

Aramis steeled himself before he looked at Athos’ right arm on the far side of the bed and gently traced the bone with his fingers.

“ _Politique de la terre brûlée_ ,” d’Artagnan said softly, following his assessment attentively.

The age-old strategy of retreating military forces—when all was lost, ensure that nothing was to be gained for the victor, burn the farms, destroy the crops, demolish the bridges... make sure that what you can’t take won’t benefit anyone else. Aramis took a closer look at Athos’ arm, the latest battleground in this remorseless war. Was Athos to be _la terre brûlée_? Nothing left of the Athos they knew? A swordsman without his right hand, a crippled musketeer, a brilliant mind in a body that would not do his bidding... Aramis had wished for tetanus’ retreat for so long, but if that was to be the manner of its retreat...

It looked a clean break of Athos’ upper arm and the skin remained unbroken, though after the spasm the bone did not align any more. If they could fix that; if they could keep the arm immobilised; if he did not somehow develop an infection... maybe this break could heal, maybe not all was lost.

“Not yet,” he said to d’Artagnan.

The younger man’s eyes lit up immediately. Aramis regretted having to curtail that joy.

“We might be able to fix this,” he cautioned. “We might...”

D’Artagnan nodded eagerly. Aramis felt some shadow of his relief. Broken bones were dangerous, prone to infection and ended up crippling too many men, but he could handle broken bones. He had seen them before, he would see them again, and he knew what to do. Broken bones were easy compared to tetanus.

“I’ll need to get some supplies,” Aramis said. “Splints and bandages,” he clarified when d’Artagnan looked alarmed. “And I will need your help.”

He watched thoughts and emotions flicker across d’Artagnan’s face in rapid succession. As much as all this had rattled him, he was still perceptive and a quick thinker. He knew that Porthos would usually be assisting Aramis.

“Is Porthos alright?” d’Artagnan asked.

Aramis sighed, but tried to keep his voice low and neutral.

“He’s blaming himself for breaking Athos’ arm,” he said.

“He didn’t...”

“I have already told him that he is not to blame, that he was only trying to help,” Aramis cut off d’Artagnan’s interjection. “Give him some time.” He looked at d’Artagnan beseechingly. “This has been hard on him as well.”

Harder than Aramis had realised.

It was easy to take Porthos for granted. Loyal, steadfast Porthos, always there with a smile, always there to forgive.

“No, I mean he really didn’t,” d’Artagnan said.

Aramis smiled a little at the boy’s persistence.

“You are kind, but—“

“No, really, listen,” d’Artagnan insisted. “Just look at it.”

Aramis did, again. Clearly broken.

“ _He_ didn’t break it,” d’Artagnan implored. “Look where the break is. Porthos never touched that bone.”

Suddenly it dawned on Aramis.

“He had one hand on his chest and one on his lower arm,” d’Artagnan elaborated. “He didn’t push down too hard. Maybe it’s the spasm that did it, I don’t know, but it sure as hell wasn’t Porthos.”

Usually Aramis would have admonished him for his language, but he let it go. He was too delighted by these findings, too happy to be able to absolve Porthos of this guilt.

Porthos looked distinctly out of his depth when Aramis coaxed him into coming over to the bed. When he laid eyes upon the fracture, Aramis thought Porthos was going to be sick. Aramis explained d’Artagnan’s observation and Porthos nodded, but he remained absent-minded and close-lipped.

“I shouldn’t have...” Porthos murmured.

“If you hadn’t, who knows what would have happened,” d’Artagnan said reasonably. “He’s not dead, now is he?”

“Not yet,” Porthos whispered tonelessly. It wasn’t the reaction Aramis had hoped for, but at least Porthos was at Athos’ side now.

Reducing a fracture in a tetanus patient who cannot bear to be touched was no easy feat. It was a painful procedure at the best of times, and Aramis disliked performing it without anything to take the edge off, but they had no other options. As he had explained to d’Artagnan, it was impossible to leave the arm like this unless they wanted to guarantee that Athos remained crippled for life. However long that might be.

Aramis showed d’Artagnan how to hold the upper fragment of bone in place and went to work, first pulling, and then rotating the lower piece back into place. Athos’ eyes flew open at that and Aramis quickly focussed on his work again, unable to witness the agony he was putting into those eyes. Once length and alignment had been corrected, Aramis flexed Athos’ elbow and applied pressure to his upper arm. It felt like the pieces of bone had slotted back into place, but he could only pray that he was right about that. He already considered it a miracle that all this manhandling and the intense pain had not resulted in yet another severe spasm.

Aramis splinted the arm and wrapped it tightly in bandages, allowing the bones to rest safely and protect them as they mended. A cast, while preferable, was hardly practical under the circumstances, as the starch solution took a good three days to dry. There were no guarantees that Athos would be alive in three days time, and any intervening spasms would render the cast useless. Splints it was then, splints and some fervent prayer that they would prove strong enough.

Rest was of the essence now if Athos was to have any chance of a complete recovery. And if he didn’t have that, then what _did_ he have left?

They went about their business as usual; spasms, and care, and so much waiting, but even that routine felt all wrong and different. With Porthos so clearly affected by recent events, any remaining trace of optimism had vanished.

Porthos remained downcast. Aramis noticed that he only left the room when prompted and barely slept, but there was little he could do about that. It was heart wrenching to see Porthos be so timid around Athos all of a sudden. He was hesitant to touch him and only resumed giving him water after a desperate outburst from d’Artagnan who feared that Athos would die of thirst because of his inability to make him drink.

Every minute of their ceaseless duty felt like they were performing the last rites for their dear friend and there were times Aramis was tempted to send for a priest. He only refrained from it because he knew that the ceremony held little meaning for Athos and if his friend could still speak, he would only agree to go through with it to humour Aramis.

Still unsure that anyone would listen, but unable to do much else, Aramis prayed for healing one way or another. Given all that they had witnessed of Athos’ illness, he almost meant it when he didn’t stress healing in this life over healing in the next.

Whether Athos was asleep or unconscious, or simply too weak to show any sign of life beyond his laboured breaths, they could not tell. Even glimpses of his roving eyes had become rare. It had been three weeks since Athos had fallen ill and his state had only deteriorated. How much longer that could continue, none of them knew.

They focussed on each breath.

Whenever one did not follow immediately on the heels of the other, Aramis panicked though he knew it was a selfish desire to insist that his friend stay alive despite everything.

Breathing too seemed to be something that Athos only did to humour him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations
> 
> Au delà du possible —“Beyond what is possible”, motto of the 13th Parachute Dragoon Regiment of the French army. One of the oldest regiments not only in this fic, but also in the French army, founded only about 54 years after the Musketeers, still in Ancien Régime France. Originally a cavalry regiment, the list of battles they were involved in reads like an abridged version of European history.
> 
> Coup de grâce —“blow of mercy”, the deathblow delivered to end the suffering of a severely wounded person or animal.
> 
> Politique de la terre brûlée — “scorched earth policy”, a well-known military strategy since ancient times. Some famous more recent examples are Hitler’s Nero Decree in 1945, Sherman's March to the Sea in 1864, and the Russian retreat from Napoleon in 1812 (for all of you War&Peace fans out there).
> 
> 2 Timothy 1:7 — "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind" Aramis repeats this several times, abbreviated in different ways. First mentioned in the previous chapter as Jean-Jacques’ farewell to Aramis.
> 
> Broken bones — No external forces needed, tetanus spasms do actually break bones. The muscle contractions get so bad they break bones, including necks and backs. What happens here is somewhat similar to breaking your arm in an arm-wrestling match. Another little fun fact: Plaster casts were not invented until the 19th century when a bunch of military surgeons discovered that very useful application. In the 16th century the remedy for broken bones was lots of rest, just how useful casts (made of egg white, flour, and animal fat, or a starch solution) actually were was not yet known.
> 
> Aramis crying — As you have probably all realised by now, I was a fan of Dumas’ books long before the BBC series, and there are certain parts of book canon that I’m really attached to, this being one of them. There is a fair bit of crying in Dumas’ books, but never by Aramis. I have been told off by my Beta for posting any book spoilers, but let’s just say I decided to only make Aramis cry when one of his friends is dead or dying. Just a little thing that I’m personally quite attached to and that seemed to fit reasonably well within the BBC canon.
> 
> Ecclesiastes 4:12 — “Though one may be overpowered, two can withstand. And a threefold cord is not easily broken.”


	9. Debout les morts (The dead, get up!)

Athos’ finger twitched.

It woke him, which meant that he had actually been asleep for once. An uncommon indulgence. How humble he had become to now appreciate something as simple as sleep, how exhausted from staying alive.

He would have smiled at that, but knew that motion was currently beyond him. His muscles had not been his to command for some time now. _Weeks? Months?_ D’Artagnan had mentioned _three weeks_ , but whether that had been yesterday or a week ago, Athos couldn’t tell.

But three weeks. Three weeks were a long time to be unable to muster the energy for anything but staying alive. A long time to be lying prone in a bed that wasn’t his, a long time to find little, if any, relief in sleep. Sleep had become a rare commodity. The twitching however was not and he knew what it heralded.

His finger twitched again.

Just a finger, the smallest finger on his left hand, seemingly so insignificant. It always started small, merely a twitch, barely noticeable. He had learned to notice. It started small and then it grew, from a twitch to a spasm within a few heartbeats. He had learned to anticipate it.

There was no point in bracing himself for the inevitable; he had learned that by now. It would come and it would sweep him away, as unchangeable as the tide. Resistance was futile, but at least his body was too weak to allow him to cry out in pain. A small mercy, but mercy all the same.

His friends knew he was suffering. They always did, even when he attempted to hide it.

His finger twitched a third time.

Athos wished the spasm would finally start. He had always detested the wait before a fight. Once the strategic manoeuvring was over, he had no patience for delays. The dithering reminded him of his father, of the endless hours spent deliberating over some minor decision or another. Life as a musketeer was much more suitable to his preferences. No hesitation. If there was to be bloodshed, it was as well to simply get on with it. Athos felt the same about his present situation. He knew what was coming and he longed for it to be over sooner rather than later.

Maybe it would be over for good.

Maybe this would be the spasm that brought death.

Maybe he had finally earned rest.

Release from pain. An end to his suffering, to his thoughts, to him... _Death._

No.

Not like this.

He couldn’t do that to them.

He wouldn’t.

He wanted to live. For them. With them.

They were always there, in the room with him, around him, supporting him, washing him, dressing him, feeding him... doing everything for him. He was past embarrassment now, past questioning whether a man should ever be so helpless, so completely at the mercy of another.

They cared and they were there for him in his time of need. Athos treasured that.

Their voices followed him into the rare moments of sleep and the more frequent times when he was barely conscious, desperately clinging to some shreds of himself, some piece of wreckage of what was left of his body. Their voices were like a thread binding him to reality, a lifeline giving him a way back when the waves of pain crashed over him and threatened to drown him entirely.

They were so kind, so gentle, calling him _mon cher_ and _mon ami_ when really they must have been fed up with caring for him after all this time.

Then they called him by his name, his real name, not the one the Lord and the law knew him by, but the one he had chosen himself. A name that fit him better than his Christian name and title ever had.

_Athos_

He had chosen it for simplicity, had decided to be called by the part of his name that was least familiar to those in his previous life. Something that was devoid of any grandeur, something more becoming of a simple soldier.

_Athos_

He had chosen it as a name to die under. A name to be put on the unadorned cross of a humble soldier, to be forgotten in some neglected corner of a cemetery, or better yet, a name to be scattered by the wind in some remote battlefield.

_Athos_

The word was gentle on their lips. They made it sound like an endearment, something precious and cherished. They called him by his name, called him back time and time again when he was about to be swept out to sea.

His finger twitched again.

It was a strange twitch, somehow not painful, not normal. Tetanus never toyed with him for that long. It was an honest disease if nothing else, utterly predictable, once you got used to its excesses. He appreciated torturers like that.

This protracted twitching was unusual. Athos started to marvel at the change in approach and what it might mean. Experimentally, he attempted to move the twitching finger. Lifting a single finger had never seemed like such an extraordinary task before. The connection between his brain and his muscles was as slow as everything else about him..

But eventually the signal reached its destination.

For the first time in weeks Athos voluntarily moved a muscle. Lifting a finger had never felt like such an accomplishment before.

To his astonishment, the rigidity that had plagued his body for so long was greatly diminished. What remained was a profound soreness, a bone-deep tiredness. It felt like his finger was in the borehole of a heavy musket and he was lifting all that additional weight every time he strained the small muscle.

Lifting a musket on one finger was a show of strength that Porthos delighted in, particularly around new recruits that he wanted to startle with his physical prowess. Usually, Athos had little time for such amusements, convinced he had nothing to prove to anyone. As long as his physical strength was sufficient to fulfil his duties, he was content. Now even such a minor achievement was a source of delight for him.

If he was able to move his finger, maybe he could also force his eyes into submission. Athos wanted to open his eyes, to see his friends. The only time his eyes were open was when a spasm gripped him, but then he had no ability to truly see.

Everything was slow, sluggish. He could feel the thought translate into a muscle movement bit by bit. Slowly, so slowly, his eyelids lifted and a sliver of light passed under his lashes.

The light hurt his brain, and Athos held his breath, fearing the inevitable consequence. But the light did not trigger a spasm. That too was different, and pleasantly so.

It took his eyes a while to focus, to convey a sharp image to his brain. The wooden beams of the ceiling were bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning. Athos lay there for a moment, taking it all in, but what he truly wanted to see was not within his field of vision yet.

Turning his head should never be something he needed to gather all his strength for, but it was.

In the end, it was worth the effort.

He could finally see them.

His friends, his brothers, the family that chose him and made him feel welcome and wanted in their midst. All three of them were there, asleep and exhausted by their constant care for him.

Aramis was hunched over in a chair, with Porthos and d’Artagnan on their bedrolls a little further away. The boy had tucked his gangly limbs up close to his body, blankets tangled in a haphazard mess. Porthos was curled around him, not touching him, but still shielding him, protective of his friends even in his sleep.

Athos just lay there and looked at them, drinking in the familiar sight of their bodies, their faces, their kindness. Their continuous presence was keeping him alive. Their devotion had replaced his own faltering strength when he could go no further.

He might not deserve their love, but he was happy to accept that which was so freely given.

Moving a finger, opening his eyes, and turning his head had tired Athos considerably. He wanted to stay awake, to look at his brothers, to fully be there with them after all those long days of clinging tenuously to the ropes they threw him. With the little light that found its way into the room brightening steadily, Athos knew the calm would not last. Aramis at least was an early riser and while sheer exhaustion might have made him fall asleep during his watch, he would wake soon.

Athos tried to focus on his breathing, tried to regiment it, to force it into a regular rhythm. His lungs burned and his ribs protested the slightest movement, but he knew that it would help. It always did. Controlling his breathing calmed him and allowed him to be a better musketeer, a better friend and leader when his dark thoughts threatened to overtake him. He had told them as much, but his friends could not fathom that it also provided some pain relief to him. He could quietly breathe through Aramis stitching his wounds, through torture and the early days of the tetanus infection. Now he attempted to regain that level of control over his own body, just for a moment, long enough to watch them wake.

He found he could swallow, even though his throat felt tight and like it had been scraped raw. This small movement, like all the others before, was incredibly taxing, the muscles in his throat fluttering with exhaustion.

He wanted this. He wanted to show them something positive, to grant them a tiny spark of hope in the midst of all this misery he had heaped upon them.

Aramis started to stir, always the first to wake. He moved his arms, and then groaned softly as he stretched his neck and shoulders. Athos knew it would be mere moments before Aramis opened his eyes. It took several attempts for Athos to find his voice and when he did it was unnaturally deep and raspy.

“Good morning.”

His words sparked confusion. Aramis’ eyes snapped open and he jerked violently, toppling off his chair with none of his usual grace. Athos noted that even as he was falling, Aramis’ hand instinctively darted to his hip where his pistol would usually be. The noise woke the others. Porthos stood in an instant, wide awake and ready to do whatever was needed while d’Artagnan still battled with his blankets, neither one of them sure what had just happened.

Aramis caught himself.

“He spoke.”

Three pairs of eyes were on Athos in an instant. Seeing him awake, they quietly approached him, expressions flickering between delight and wariness.

“Athos!”

He had chosen that name for death, as something to mark his grave, something sufficiently different to apply to his new lifestyle. The name was barely familiar enough for his body to be located should anybody ever come looking for it.

He had never been so glad to hear that name from their lips. He had never been so glad to still be alive — for them.

D’Artagnan came to a sliding halt on the floor, kneeling next to the bed, his face filling most of Athos’ limited field of vision. He was tousle-haired with the weave of his blanket imprinted on his cheek, but he was smiling as brightly as if the king had just declared him captain of the Musketeers.

“Can you hear me, Athos? Did you really just speak? Does your throat hurt? I bet it hurts, your voice sounded really hoarse just now. I can’t believe you actually spoke! Are you feeling better? Do you think it’s over?”

Athos let the questions wash over him. As usual, few thoughts interfered with the words that tumbled from d’Artagnan’s mouth, and Athos would have smiled at the boy’s familiar eagerness if he had had the energy to spare. Since he didn’t, he simply looked at him, hoping that his eyes could convey his love for d’Artagnan as clearly as he could read the answer in his eyes.

Aramis appeared next, pushing d’Artagnan aside a little as he knelt as well, making sure that Athos could see him.

“Athos, _mon cher..._ ”

Aramis put a world of feeling into those few syllables, speaking of a deep hurt and despair that Athos never wanted him to suffer. He extended a hand and Athos could feel it ghosting ever so gently over his hair.

Athos was suddenly acutely aware of the disgusting mess his hair was bound to be after all of those weeks, but Aramis didn’t seem to mind.

“It’s good to hear your voice again...” Aramis said. “To see your eyes.”

Athos noticed that his words were carefully chosen not to state any more than what was actually in front of him. Not displaying any sentimentality, not raising anybody’s hopes by declaring _“it’s good to have you back”_ when that was a tenuous assumption at best. He appreciated Aramis’ honesty.

Athos’ eyelids flickered and he barely had the strength to keep them open. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, but he had to... Porthos... He tried to speak, but could not form the word. Only a barely audible _“oh”_ escaped him.

Of course d’Artagnan had heard it.

“Is the pain bad? Do you need something? Porthos can give you some water. Maybe some warmed wine for your throat? We could...”

“Porthos, come here,” Aramis interrupted. Athos saw movement, but his eyes were losing focus as consciousness threatened to slip from his grasp. He forced his eyes open with supreme effort. There he was, a third dark head behind the others, finally showing Athos his face, the sadness in his eyes at odds with his smile.

_Porthos._

All three of his brothers were here. With him

Athos let his eyelids slide shut, what little strength he had possessed now utterly spent.

They were well.

They were together.

If this were to be the end of his strength, some desperate last stand from his tortured body, then at least he would pass with that thought on his mind.

If this was the end, he could die content.

But he didn’t.

He woke again and they were still there.

He hadn’t doubted it, but it was comforting nonetheless.

“Welcome back, _mon ami_.”

“It’s past noon. You had a good long sleep, _mon cher_.”

“Can you take some wine? Bound to make you feel better.”

Hands on his shoulders, touching him so softly, and he didn’t resist, just let them manoeuvre his body into position. They were so kind, so gentle with him, so careful, but he knew their careful touches spoke of fear. He understood it. They had seen what a loud word, a simple touch, could do to him.

Athos remembered and he was afraid too.

He had lost consciousness repeatedly and many memories were shrouded in a haze of pain, but he still remembered.

He remembered his utter helplessness, his embarrassment at being unable to see to his most intimate needs, his vain attempts to mask his agony. He remembered his muscles contracting, his spine bending, his breath stopping. He remembered the fear in their faces, the tears in their eyes. He remembered his friends embracing when they had lost all hope. But most of all he remembered their gentle touches, their kind words, their very presence illuminating the deep pit of hell his life had become.

He tasted sweet, spiced wine, the liquid warmed to soothe his aching throat, and swallowed dutifully.

He wanted to drown the memories of his sickness in wine, or better yet, in bottle after bottle of the cheapest and strongest liquor he could find. He longed for the alcohol burning away all recollection of the past few weeks until nothing was left, nothing at all.

He wanted to drown the memories of sickness and weakness, but he knew he never could. Drowning those memories would mean erasing the weeks of care and friendship and love that his brothers had shown him.

He had no desire to do that.

“Slow down, don’t exhaust yourself.”

The cup was taken from his lip and Athos coughed slightly as a stray drop of wine impeded his breathing. His lungs burned in response and he was reminded of his aching ribs.

“Got your thirst for wine back, that’s got to be a good sign,” d’Artagnan said, the familiar sparkle of laughter finally returning to his voice.

Athos would do anything in his power to keep it there.

“Do you feel a bit more rested?” d’Artagnan continued. “There hasn’t been a spasm since yesterday and your muscles feel a bit looser”

Athos attempted to answer in the affirmative, but Aramis stopped him before he could utter a syllable.

“Shhh, _mon ami,_ preserve your strength. Just blink your eyes.”

Athos did. _Yes._

“Do you want to sleep some more?”

Athos blinked twice. _No._

“Can you bear to be touched? — Just a little.”

Athos considered. _Yes._

“Should I wash your face?”

_Yes._

A wet cloth brushed gently over his brow, across his beard, then down his neck and over his shoulders, as far as d’Artagnan could reach without undressing him. Athos felt his muscles flutter a little, agitated by the touch, the sensation strangely amplified. But mostly the touch was welcome, refreshing. It made Athos feel slightly more human, more like himself.

“Better?”

_Yes._

The interrogation gave Athos something to focus on. The sound of d’Artagnan’s voice calmed him. Being able to interact with his friend was a great relief. Athos closed his eyes, relaxing, just breathing for a moment.

“You still with us?”

A hand brushed the palm of his left and lingered there. Athos focussed on moving his fingers to return the gesture.

“He squeezed my fingers! Aramis, he moved, I swear he did!”

“I saw it.”

Aramis’ voice was full of fondness. Athos was certain that he had seen that the tiny movement did not equate to a squeeze at all, but he appreciated Aramis’ generosity. He opened his eyes again and found it easier than before. Aramis and d’Artagnan were perched on the edge of the bed with Porthos standing behind them. All were careful to remain visible to Athos.

_He loved them._

He loved them. The sentiment hit him with great force, making his heart swell until it felt close to bursting. A pleasant warmth spread through his body. Athos desperately wanted to express this, to show them just how much he appreciated them. He concentrated all his energy on moving his fingers again, giving d’Artagnan’s hand a proper squeeze this time. It was a feeble attempt to take that emotion and pour it into hope, into some semblance of happiness for his friends. No words, no amount of strength would ever be enough to adequately express all he felt, but he could give them this carefree moment of joy.

“Thank you.”

Athos’ voice was a rough whisper, but their eyes told him that they had heard. Maybe they even understood the many things he lacked the words and strength to express.

D’Artagnan leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Athos’ knuckles.

“Don’t think you can have him all to yourself,” Aramis chided mildly.

Athos felt a different hand in his and made sure to squeeze it too.

“Thank you,” he repeated.

Aramis shook his head. “No, _mon cher,_ thank _you_.”

If Athos hadn’t known better, he could have sworn that there were tears glittering in the corner of Aramis’ eye.

There was no mistaking the water running down Porthos’ face when d’Artagnan nudged him forward to take Athos’ hand as well. Porthos seemed more hesitant than the others, perhaps afraid they were exhausting Athos with this continued activity.

“Thank you,” Athos repeated a third time as he squeezed Porthos’ fingers. He felt Porthos’ hand shake in his as his friend was wrecked by sobs, crying harder than Athos had ever seen.

“Porthos...” d’Artagnan soothed, draping an arm around Porthos’ shoulders. Aramis rested a hand upon his arm, just above Athos’ hand. They held him, held his hand, tried to show him some comfort, some closeness.

Still Porthos cried.

His left hand went to his neck, clutching the leather thong that Athos knew to be the home of the little silver figure of Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, Porthos’ most prized possession and never far from his ever-gracious heart.

Athos wanted to help, wanted to comfort him. Porthos had helped him so much, had comforted him so often over the years. Porthos always seemed to know what to do, always understood what each of them needed. He seemed to feel more acutely that the rest of them put together. Sometimes Athos wished he could be a bit more like Porthos. Instead he lay there, confined to holding Porthos’ hand and watching his friends do the comforting. Athos suspected that the best thing he could do for Porthos’ wellbeing was to keep breathing, to stay alive.

He could do that.

He had been doing that for so long.

And somehow he was glad that he did, was glad that he had survived.

It was a novel feeling, but a good one.

He had survived.

For them.

“Athos, I...” Porthos’ voice wavered and broke. He had calmed himself a little, though his face was still tear-streaked. There was something in his voice, something sad, something desperate...

Athos tried to grip his friend’s hand more tightly.

“Sit,” he whispered.

It took both d’Artagnan and Aramis to make a reluctant Porthos perch at the very edge of the bed. Both of them kept their hands on his body, lending silent support for what exactly Athos could not fathom.

Porthos dropped his face into his hand and vigorously rubbed his eyes. They were red and swollen when he looked up again. His thumb came to rest on Athos’ fingers, and he heaved a big sigh before he spoke again.

“Athos, I... I understand if you... if you never want to see me again. I understand and I... before I go, I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry... If there’s anything I can... I’m so sorry, Athos... I’m so sorry I broke your arm...”

His solid frame shook with renewed sobs as he withdrew his hand from Athos’ grasp and made to grip his pendant again.

“You didn’t,” d’Artagnan said, but Porthos didn’t appear to hear.

Athos did. He had heard those words before, had heard that same argument between them.

He remembered.

His arm... He didn’t recall the actual incident or the acute pain that it had undoubtedly caused, but he had a clear image of the aftermath in his mind. He remembered the foreign sound of Aramis crying, and he remembered d’Artagnan tending to him, whispering into his ear that his arm would heal, that Aramis would see to it, that he would be all right.

Athos flexed the fingers on his right hand.

He felt the pressure of tightly stretched bandages and wooden splints against his arm. The movement of his fingers was slow and cumbersome. The arm was sore, but no more so than his left

A broken bone hardly seemed relevant.

But Athos knew better than to discount it.

He levelled his gaze at Aramis.

“Will I lose my arm?”

He had seen many a barber surgeon who was quick to chop off a broken limb rather than risk the infection and crippling disability it could cause.

Aramis met his eyes without hesitation.

“No,” he said with absolute conviction. “We were able to set the bone quickly and it does not seem to have shifted since. There was no external wound and there has been no sign of infection. Barring... a disaster you’ll keep your arm.”

“Good.”

Athos wished he could say more, could find the words to express his emotions, but even if he had had the strength, he wasn’t sure he had ever had the tongue for that.

“See, Athos isn’t angry,” d’Artagnan said. “The bone will heal, it’ll be fine...”

He used the same tone he had when he calmed a skittish horse, his hands never leaving Porthos, maintaining that link between them.

“... his sword arm,” Porthos choked out.

Porthos blamed himself for what had happened, Athos realised. No matter what was still to come, Athos would not allow it. He refused to let Porthos carry that burden. To bear such undeserved guilt.

“I’ll have... to practice... with my left,” Athos said, pausing frequently for breath. “D’Artagnan... might finally... have a chance.”

Aramis smiled broadly at that, and even Porthos’ mouth twitched slightly.

“I beat you already!” d’Artagnan protested.

“Hardly counts... when your opponent... is half dead.”

Aramis chuckled at that and d’Artagnan gave an amused snort, but Porthos’ tears returned with a vengeance.

“Porthos, _mon cher,_ it’s not your fault, it’s not...”

Neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan’s calming words made a difference. Athos did not understand what had happened to trigger that renewed surge of emotion. While Porthos was the most sensitive when it came to his brothers and those he felt kinship towards, he was also the least self-depreciating. He lived entirely in the present, accepting the past and never worrying about the future, so such a distressing display of guilt was highly uncharacteristic for him.

Porthos had taught Athos that tears were neither shameful nor necessarily a cause for concern, but he still found such intense crying worrisome. Fortunately, d’Artagnan and Aramis were more adept at handling emotions and, hugging Porthos between them, they eventually managed to calm him down once more. Aramis offered him his handkerchief, which Porthos took gratefully.

Athos tried to reach out for him when he looked up. Porthos must have spotted the feeble movement, as he took Athos’ hand in his and very gently brushed his thumb across his fingers. Athos was reminded of the very beginning of his illness when Porthos had been the first to touch him, to offer him what comfort he could. It was his privilege to return the favour now.

“I was afraid I’d lose you,” Porthos said, looking at Athos.

Even if Athos had not realised that that was still a very real possibility, Aramis’ uncomfortable shuffle would have told him all he needed to know.

“He’s getting better now,” d’Artagnan said. “You’ll see. He’ll be fine.”

Porthos turned his head, looking at each of his friends in turn.

“I was afraid, I’d lose all of you.”

His voice was steady now, but toneless. His shoulders slumped, making him look smaller, somehow diminished.

The sentence hung heavily between them.

The silence stretched, as nobody seemed to know what to say.

“It’s not... I don’t blame you at all,” Porthos continued. “You’ve both got a life beyond this—beyond us, and that’s good. You’ve got... people...”

He trailed off, but when nobody spoke, both Aramis and d’Artagnan looking distinctly confused, he continued.

“You’ve got Constance,” Porthos said, turning to d’Artagnan.

“I haven’t,” d’Artagnan protested. “She—“

“She’ll be glad to have you back, and she’s got your back regardless,” Aramis interrupted him, apparently realising where this was going.

Porthos nodded, then continued, looking at Aramis.

“And you’ve got... you’ve got a whole life out there...” Athos couldn’t help but remember just how true that was. “Your Madame Mercredi for starters.”

Aramis shook his head.

“Oh Porthos, it’s not...” he started, then changed track. “If that’s what you think, then why did you send me to see—her?”

Porthos was more collected now, but there were still tears in his eyes when he answered.

“You couldn’t stay here. You needed to sort yourself out and you couldn’t do that here with us. You needed comfort and I couldn’t give you that.” He sighed. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

“I would never!” Aramis protested vehemently, then, after a moment’s pause, continued more calmly. “I came back.”

Porthos smiled at him fondly, then said very quietly.

“It’s all right, Aramis. You’ve seen too much death already.”

_Of course,_ Athos thought. Aramis had witnessed twenty of his friends die, had been powerless to save them. It was only natural that Aramis wouldn’t want to see another die. Athos suddenly felt guilty for making him relive that trauma.

“It’s not that,” Aramis said. “Hasn’t been for a long time. I just wasn’t sure you’d want me around if I... if I failed as a medic.”

Aramis too. The full magnitude of what the past weeks had meant for these men he treasured as brothers was slowly becoming apparent to Athos. Porthos and Aramis had been fast friends when he joined the musketeers. Their duo had taken time to transform into a trio. And yet both Porthos and Aramis had doubted their friendship and its continued existence without him.

Porthos looked at Aramis with an aching softness in his eyes.

“You didn’t, _mon cher,”_ he said, gently cupping Aramis’ chin in his hand. “Never.”

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment. Athos was so enamoured by this little scene, he almost did not notice d’Artagnan’s deep frown.

“And you,” Athos said, straining to extend his hand towards d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan twitched and blushed a little, caught.

“I’d have had the regiment,” he said, shrugging. “Apprentice musketeer and all.”

“We’re your friends, too.”

“Ah, sure,” d’Artagnan said, fidgeting and unsure. “But you’ve... you’ve known each other forever and I’m just... it’s fine, really.”

“You’re bloody important, too,” Porthos said, hugging d’Artagnan who smiled timidly.

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Aramis added, reaching across to put a hand on d’Artagnan’s knee.

Athos was confused. He had never contributed more to their friendship than acerbic remarks and bottles of wine. While d’Artagnan might see him as a hero, even he was learning how truly broken Athos really was, and the other two had certainly seen him at his lowest. To hear them fear for their brotherhood in the event of his death... it was not something Athos had expected.

“Gentlemen,” he said slowly. “I’m honoured.”

They looked at him and whatever it was they saw there, it was evident that they loved it.

“But... one for all... doesn’t mean,” he paused, as much to catch his breath as to gather his thoughts. “...That I bind you.”

Athos was tiring quickly and knew he had very little time to express his thoughts.

“I’m just... one man... You are brothers... all of you... and while... we’re strongest... together,” he paused again, his breath catching audibly in his throat. “Separation... is not... the end.”

There was fervent shaking of heads all around.

“No Athos...”

“You can’t...”

“Please Athos, you’re not...”

“Stay strong,” Athos continued, not heeding their protests. “Stay... together...”

D’Artagnan made a small, pitiful noise and Porthos appeared to be crying again, but Athos found it difficult to tell for certain. His eyelids drooped and he struggled to harness sufficient strength for these last words, his tortured body exhausted from his long speech.

“I’ll stay, too...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & Explanations
> 
> Debout les morts — “the dead get up” once again the English translation feels clumsy so let me tell the story behind it. It’s the motto of the 3rd Marine Infantry Regiment of the French army, one of the “Grand Four” regiments that were once stationed at the primary military ports ready to embark and be employed around the world at a moment’s notice. In early 1915, after a particularly violent German counter-attack close to Verdun, a certain Jacques Péricard galvanised the exhausted and practically surrounded troops with that cry. The men rallied, but it was the last time many of these “dead” would get up.
> 
> Mon cher — “My dear” (used by one of the four to refer to another 78 times in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, 19 times by Aramis)
> 
> Mon ami — “My friend” (used by one of the four to refer to another 22 times in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, most often Athos to d’Artagnan)


	10. Qui ose gagne (Who dares wins)

There was nothing easy about Athos’ recovery. The fever that had all but vanished was rekindled with renewed vigour, weakening him further. It was draining his strength almost as quickly as he regained it now that the tetanus poison had finally burned itself out.

And then there was the cough. He had been too weak to cough for such a long time, but as he regained the ability, it returned with a vengeance. According to Aramis, his inability to cough or gag for so many days had likely made him breathe in particles of water and wine. The liquid had been left to fester in his lungs causing an inflammation that resulted in the cough.

The cough in turn triggered spasms.

Not the frightening full-body spasms—fortunately those seemed to be a thing of the past—but a return of the rigid muscles and bared teeth of earlier days. It was something he wished to avoid, but since he could not supress his cough, Athos lived in a permanent cycle of pain and difficulty breathing.

It was enough to kill a man.

But Athos stayed alive.

He was still in severe pain and weaker than he cared to admit, but he lived. For some reason, that gave him previously unknown joy. To have come so close to the death he had so often courted, or at least been none to desperate to avoid, had served to focus his thoughts.

He had been lost for too long. He had been tormented by Aramis and the queen and the consequences that would have for all of them. He had been distressed over his wife’s reappearance and her wreaking havoc here in Paris, his Paris, his safe space, his new life far away from Pinon and the heartbreak that place held.

_I made her what she is. Her murders are on my hands._

_It is you who should be on your knees._

In the end, she had brought him to his knees, had nearly brought him to his death.

And yet...

She had not done so purposefully, couldn’t have. She did not hold that power over him. It had been chance or Fate—if such an entity existed—that brought him tetanus.

He had been at the mercy of his thoughts as much as at the mercy of the poison for weeks, weeks spent with no other distraction from the pain than his thoughts. And yet, she had hardly featured.

Maybe her grip on him was finally loosening.

The people on his mind were not ones that wished him death and despair. His friends were his priority now. He was alive for them and because of them, and he would continue to live his life in that knowledge.

The three of them had remained close for all these weeks and they were still supporting him now that his strength gradually returned. He needed help with everything: washing, eating, even relieving himself. They were there to provide it gladly, with smiles on their faces.

Athos had sought to free himself of servants and support as part of his self-imposed penance, but nothing had taught him humility so well as to be aided by his brothers. Such were the riches of a lowly soldier. Riches that his wife would never know, nor know to appreciate if she did encounter them.

Athos had much time to sit and observe as he still lacked the energy to do much else. His prolonged illness had taken its toll, not just on his own body, but also on the minds of his friends.

Athos saw it in the way d’Artagnan would sit quietly for hours on end and cast him worried glances whenever he felt unobserved, as if he were afraid Athos had died while he wasn’t looking

Athos saw it in the way Porthos, usually adept at taking care of all his physical needs, shied away from touching or looking at his right arm. He was evidently still blaming himself for the break. It did not matter how many times d’Artagnan explained that it had merely been the force of the spasm, how often Aramis assured him that the bone was knitting together nicely, or how much Athos himself disregarded the injury. Porthos refused to absolve himself of his guilt.

Even Tréville seemed uneasy and uncharacteristically apologetic around Athos. But the one who truly worried him was Aramis. Aramis, who lived his religion fully and fervently, had not opened his bible once during all those days of sitting and waiting. And while he would occasionally finger his rosary in the depth of night, Athos had not witnessed a single prayer of thanks from Aramis. Aramis probably found it difficult to give thanks considering what had happened before Athos’ illness.

Athos knew he needed to talk to them individually. More than that, he wanted to. He was not one for an overt show of emotion or ebullient thanks, but he wanted to ease the burdens they carried for his sake.

It had become easier to catch them on their own. With Athos’ health steadily improving, it was unnecessary for two or all three of his friends to keep their bedside vigil. Tréville had ordered them to return to duty, albeit with the concession that he only expected two of them to report each morning and assigned them solely to comparatively local and risk-free duties. Tréville was doing them a favour. The captain had probably realised that keeping them all inside for well over a month was doing none of them any favours. They still spent the nights together, eschewing the comfort of their beds for the hard floor in Tréville’s office and what warmth could be found in their camaraderie.

Despite Athos’ protests that he was no longer likely to die at a moment’s notice, whoever was not on duty during the day, sat with him. There was always one of them keeping him company and keeping a watchful eye on him—just in case.

Despite his protests, Athos appreciated it.

Eventually, Athos felt strong enough to tackle the anxiety that surrounded his friends. He approached D’Artagnan first. Out of the four, d’Artagnan would probably be easiest to talk to. The boy still had a tendency to take Athos’ word as law.

They lounged in companionable silence after their shared lunch, the empty bowls and cups piled onto the nightstand. Athos sat up in bed, his back cushioned with several downy pillows, a luxury he did not usually permit himself.

D’Artagnan had tipped one of Tréville’s chairs onto its hind legs, balancing with his feet on the edge of the bed. His toes peeked out of socks that were in desperate need of darning. He was devouring an apple, completely oblivious of the sorry state of his clothing. Athos considered commenting on it to lighten the mood, but thought better of it. Constance had likely been in charge of mending d’Artagnan’s things ever since he had arrived in Paris.

No need to bring up painful memories.

“I will sodomize and face-fuck you,” Athos said conversationally.

The effect was immediate and entirely expected. D’Artagnan jerked out of his post-lunch haze, sending the apple core flying across the room and making the chair teeter precariously, threatening to fall backwards. Throwing all four limbs about wildly, d’Artagnan managed to regain his balance, bringing the chair crashing down onto all four legs.

“ _Diable,”_ he cursed with gusto. “You... _what?”_

Athos permitted himself a brief smirk before answering, in his best impression of a bored schoolmaster.

“ _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.”_

D’Artagnan stared at him, flabbergasted.

“The translation from the Latin that you asked me for some weeks ago,” Athos explained. “I am satisfied that you are mature enough to hear it now.”

“The Latin,” d’Artagnan croaked, still completely flummoxed.

“Aramis regaled a certain gentleman at the gates with it, presumably the relation of some female _acquaintance_ ,” Athos elaborated.

“I will sodomize and...” d’Artagnan repeated, voice toneless.

“...face-fuck you,” Athos completed. “Carmen 16, a rather notorious poem by the Roman Catullus.”

“A Latin poem about... really?”

“The line holds a wider meaning, although Aramis undoubtedly chose it for the insult it contains.”

“What else could it mean?” d’Artagnan asked, interest piqued.

“It has to be seen in context,” Athos said. “Catullus’ work consisted mainly of romantic love poems, quite saccharine, effeminate one might say.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

“This particular poem is Catullus’ protest, his defence against being regarded as weak and soft.”

“And he does that by... well, _things_?”

“He tries to explain that a man should not be judged by his words alone,” Athos explained. “In fact, it is evident that Catullus held both himself and his friends to quite high standards of virtue and fidelity, despite appearances.

“A bit like Aramis then.”

“Indeed.” Athos nodded. “Ovid—you will have heard of him—follows a similar line of argument, declaring _vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea_.”

“My life is...”

“Moral, or virtuous.”

“My muse is... happy.”

“Playful, humorous, or gay,” Athos corrected.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“So even when Aramis is a bit, you know... _libertine_ ,” d’Artagnan said. “It doesn’t make him any less of a good person.”

“Correct,” Athos confirmed. “Or applied more broadly, no one thing that a man does, defines him in his entirety.”

A lesson he himself should have learned earlier, but maybe he could spare his young protégé that pain.

“Hmm,” d’Artagnan made eventually. “But there are things that are so bad that they completely destroy a man’s character.”

“Yes,” Athos allowed. “Though they rarely occur in isolation. One misstep does not put your character in doubt.”

He let those words linger, knowing that his eager pupil would think on them.

D’Artagnan crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, scrutinising the wall.

“I did a bad thing,” he said at length, not looking at Athos. “I ran away, that first day when you were ill. I couldn’t watch; I didn’t want to see you... _die.”_

D’Artagnan exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “I was a coward.”

Athos nodded slowly. The lengthy introduction had paid off; d’Artagnan had confessed what plagued him. It had not been difficult to guess, but Athos had wanted to hear it from him directly.

“You are not a coward.”

“I am,” d’Artagnan said, abruptly turning his eyes onto Athos. “I was scared and I let my fear get in the way of my duty. You’re my friend. You needed me and I abandoned you.”

“So one crude verse makes the poet immoral?”

“It’s not... I still ran.”

“You came back. You faced your fears and tended to me, even when... at times... Porthos and Aramis could not.”

“I should never have left in the first place!” D’Artagnan leapt from his chair, almost shouting now.

“You knew what I was facing. Nobody can blame you for not wanting to see it,” Athos said calmly.

“I deserted. On the eve of battle,” d’Artagnan said through gritted teeth. “What a fine musketeer I’ve proven to be.”

“It is not cowardice, nor despicable, to know our limits,” Athos said.

D’Artagnan let out a huff.

“Easy for you to say,” he said. “You’re a hero.”

Athos smiled, looking fondly at the disgruntled young man in front of him. To call him a hero after all he had seen... he wished he could be half the man he was in d’Artagnan’s eyes.

“You have seen me run from my demons many times.”

D’Artagnan shook his head violently and made to protest, but Athos cut across him.

“We both know that’s true. We all have our limits. To know them is wisdom, not cowardice. And to decide knowingly to face your fears, that, _mon ami_ , is courage.”

They sat in silence for several minutes while d’Artagnan mulled that over. Athos watched him closely, watched him frown and clench his fists, bite his tongue and tear at his hair. Eventually, the tension seemed to leave d’Artagnan’s body and he looked up.

“Thank you, Athos,” he said simply.

Athos smiled at him.

“You have great potential, _mon ami,_ ” he said. “But do not try to do it all alone.”

D’Artagnan grinned.

“You’ll have to stick around and remind me,” he said.

He slid over onto the bed, leaned forward, but then hesitated awkwardly, evidently not entirely sure what he actually wanted to do or could do without endangering Athos’ health.

Athos grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him forwards until they were close enough that he could press a kiss onto d’Artagnan’s forehead.

“I will,” he murmured. Then he added more loudly “And I’ll remind you of the need to improve your lousy footwork.”

“It’s not lousy!”

“Not if you focus on it,” Athos allowed. “But that is a rare occurrence indeed.”

With that, the tension between them was broken and the clouds that had hung low over them with past month dispersed. The rest of the afternoon passed with amicable banter and plans for new training routines. By the time the other two returned from their duties, d’Artagnan was wholly himself again, albeit somewhat more enlightened about Roman poetry.

After the success of that talk, Athos was ready to face Porthos the next day. Porthos always carried his heart on his sleeve, so it was obvious what ailed him. Nevertheless, the matter needed to be addressed.

Porthos sat with a book on his lap, a frown of intense concentration on his face, his finger carefully following the words as he was reading to Athos. Athos still found it difficult to hold a book for long periods of time and he figured that Porthos would appreciate the opportunity to practice.

Porthos had taught himself to read before he joined the musketeers and was able to decipher orders or maps without difficulty, but longer, more difficult texts remained a challenge to him. One that he was more than willing to face, ever eager to learn and to better himself. Athos admired his determination.

Reaching the end of the chapter, Porthos looked up expectantly. They discussed each section of their reading, their very different backgrounds creating stimulating debate. Porthos possessed a sharp mind and a range of experience that would have put many a nobleman to shame. Athos greatly enjoyed their mental sparring, particularly now that he lacked the strength for more physical forms of competition.

Alas, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

With his left hand, Athos reached over to the side of the nightstand where a small protruding nail had become the temporary home of Porthos’ treasured amulet of Saint Jude, visible only to Athos. He detached it carefully and looked at the saint’s image. He sighed and transferred it to his right hand.

Time to force the issue.

Athos’ right arm was still bandaged tightly and Aramis had fashioned him a sling for it, so he could not move it forward very far.

“Thank you,” he said, holding out the small figure for Porthos as best he could. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness in lending me this, but now that I’m better, I want to return it to its rightful owner.”

When Porthos made no move to reach for the pendant, Athos added,

“I know how much it means to you, _mon ami_.”

Porthos still looked dubious, but quickly snatched his treasure from Athos’ hand, holding it very carefully.

“When...?” Athos asked.

Porthos swallowed heavily.

“When... when I...” He waved vaguely in the direction of Athos’ arm and continued in a hoarse whisper. “When I broke your arm.”

“You know that’s not true,” Athos said. “I do not hold you responsible for that, and neither do Aramis and d’Artagnan. My own muscles broke that bone, not yours.”

Porthos did not seem to be listening. He enclosed Saint Jude in his fist and pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

“I used too much force,” he muttered.

“No, Porthos—“

“And your sword arm as well,” Porthos said, sliding from his seat to kneel next to the bed, looking up at Athos with such hurt in his eyes.

Athos reached out for him with his uninjured hand.

“You said that back then,” he said. “You gave me hope with that.”

“Hope?”

“I was weak then, weak and in so much pain. It was almost too much to bear,” Athos explained. “But there you were, worried about my sword arm. Such things still mattered to you; to you I was still a swordsman even when I could barely muster the strength to draw breath. Nobody worries about the sword arm of a corpse, and to you I was always more than that.”

Athos smiled. “That, _mon ami_ , gave me hope.”

“I would never...” Porthos shuddered at the thought.

“I know.”

For a while all that could be heard was the distant noise of sword fighting. Life in the garrison was slowly returning to normal after the month-long silence.

“It was bound to happen,” Porthos said. “I was always the brawn. When I signed up for the infantry the officers looked at me like I was a horse at market, checked my teeth, pinched my legs, made me lift my arms. ‘Fine specimen’ they said and that was that. They would have taken me without a brain.”

Athos let him continue without interruption. Porthos rarely spoke of his time in the infantry. They knew he had joined near the end of the first Huguenot rebellion and had seen action at Montpellier, but what Porthos had experienced before joining the musketeers remained largely unknown to them.

“But with Tréville... it was different. I wasn’t a musketeer just because of these.” He lifted his arms limply. “But now... now it’s... it was bound to go wrong one day...” He looked at his hands, Saint Jude cradled in the palm of his right. “A lost cause.”

“Never that,” Athos said, sitting up and closing his friend’s hand around the small figure of the saint. “You may see him as your patron saint, but you are no lost cause.”

“I tried...” Porthos’ eyes were far away, seeing things far beyond the dim light of the room.

“And you succeeded,” Athos said with certainty. “If you were as weak as I am now, I would still want you by my side.”

“Really?”

“I could wish for no one better.”

Porthos remained unconvinced, so Athos continued.

“I value your strength; it has served us all well and saved my life multiple times,” he said. “But I value your compassion, your caring nature, and your common sense much more.”

A smile flickered across Porthos’ face, but then he shook his head.

“If I injure you, then who is safe?” he asked. “I tried to escape it, but I’m still what people believe me to be — a thug.”

“That is not true,” Athos said.

“Even when I—”

“I trust d’Artagnan’s assessment,” Athos assured him once more. “You don’t hurt anyone without cause; you’d rather take the pain yourself. Whatever you did, you did it out of love.”

Porthos shuffled uncomfortably on his knees.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he said. “I was reacting to what I saw and I couldn’t... I lost control, Athos.”

“You didn’t,” Athos replied, his frustration with Porthos’ insistence growing. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“You don’t,” Porthos said, completely ignoring Athos. “Through all your illness you _never_ lost control.”

Athos almost laughed out loud. He had indeed clung desperately to some remnant of control, but had also gotten to the stage of having none, not even over something as trivial as his breathing.

“You have seen the opposite to be true,” Athos said. “At Ninon’s trial... during that duel with the Duke of Savoy. You watched me almost murder that man.”

Porthos frowned at the memory.

“You did that out of love for Aramis.”

Athos inclined his head, holding eye contact with Porthos.

“My point, exactly.”

When Porthos made to protest again, Athos held up a hand to stop him.

“You give us that same love,” he said. “You are not defined by what you were given, Porthos, but by what you have made of it.”

He reached out and closed Porthos’ hand around the pendant once more.

“Saint Jude has served you well, _mon ami._ Thank you for lending him to me.”

If Athos had had to pick just one reason why it was good to still be alive, Porthos’ shy smile would have been sufficient.

The following morning the four of them had breakfast together and then Porthos and d’Artagnan went to accompany the king on a hunt. Porthos complained about how it really should be Aramis on duty that day, what with being the best shot and all. D’Artagnan teased him for having grown soft over the past month and wanting to avoid the slight chill in the autumn air. Their lively banter could be heard until they left the courtyard of the garrison.

“I assume it’s my turn today,” Aramis said into the ensuing silence, leaning casually against the heavy cast-iron screen they had dragged in front of the door.

“To have the talk,” he clarified when Athos looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “It’s difficult not to notice that d’Artagnan and Porthos have both cast off their heavy yokes over these past two days. I take it as a sign of healing that you are back to your old ways.”

Athos smirked.

“By all means.”

He had contemplated several approaches to opening the dialogue with Aramis, but his friend had taken matters into his own hands. Athos waited patiently as Aramis made no sound.

Saint Sulpice chimed the hour.

As soon as the last bell had faded away, Aramis rounded on Athos. He stalked closer with the swiftness of a feral cat.

“Never do that to me again,” he hissed.

Athos looked him in the eye, unblinking. His relationship with Aramis had been troubled even before his illness and Athos had wondered what his reaction might be. The weight of Aramis’ treason had fractured something between them, but Aramis had stayed. Stayed and played nursemaid to Athos for a full month, only to watch him nearly die—the only man who knew his secret. If Aramis preferred a confrontational approach, Athos would oblige.

“My death would have meant one less person to know — hardly a bad thing,” he said coolly.

Aramis’ eyes widened and he seemed genuinely taken aback, as if the thought had never crossed his mind.

“How dare you...” he whispered. “How dare you suggest that I—”

He balled his fist and came closer.

“ _Pardieu,_ I would punch you in the face for that,” he said, his voice trembling. “If it wasn’t for the fact that I actually _want you to survive!_ ”

He shouted the last few words, making Athos shiver.

They were both breathing heavily, the only sound in the room.

“I apologise,” Athos said. “My words were thoughtless and I apologise for what I have done to you. I can’t begin to imagine the burden you have carried.” He locked eyes with Aramis, trying to give his words the weight they were meant to have. “I can’t promise to never die on you again, but I shall give it my very best.”

Aramis dropped heavily onto the chair, only breaking eye contact with Athos when he buried his face in his hands. Aramis’ elbows were resting on his knees and he was bent low, kneading his temple.

Athos let him.

He loved Aramis dearly. Their often-tumultuous friendship did nothing to change that. Aramis was right. Athos had clearly overstepped the line here. That was not the way to treat a dear friend who had worked tirelessly to ensure his survival.

Eventually, Aramis looked up, red crescent marks printed on his face.

“It’s not that,” he said softly. “I know I have no right to keep you in this life.”

Athos was taken aback.

Aramis had fought for his life. He had done everything to heal him, to alleviate his pain, to make the whole ordeal bearable somehow. He had kept Athos alive, had given him hope when all seemed lost. He had given him a reason to hold on for as long as he did. Aramis had...

“You have the only right,” Athos said, his voice breaking.

Aramis smiled, but only for a moment. It was clear that there was something more, but Athos did not dare to guess at it.

“It’s not what I meant,” he said. “Dying... I don’t want you to die, of course not, but it’s somehow part of being a musketeer.” He shrugged. “What’s more, I’m putting your head on the line. Dismemberment for me if the king ever finds out, and you, you get to chose between decapitation and the firing squad, if you’re lucky.

He gave a humourless chuckle. His eyes were wide and full of despair, so at odds with his usual joyous nature.

“It will not come to that,” Athos said, reaching out for his friend. “Nobody will ever know. We have not come through all of this just to die at the hands of _Jean Guillaume_.”

“Life and death,” Aramis said. “That’s not for us to decide.”

Silence fell as Aramis buried his face in his hands once more.

Athos looked at him with sympathy. It was easy to see Aramis as nought but the carefree libertine, but he was so much more than that. He was a budding poet and philosopher, an excellent medic and aspiring priest, but most of all; Aramis was a loyal friend and a loyal soldier. Aramis had been a soldier longer than the rest of them. He had been one of the now almost mythical figures of the first musketeers back in 1622, and had seen more combat than Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan put together. It was easy to forget that, too. Aramis made it easy.

Being so close to death and reduced to naught but quiet observation for so long had given Athos a new appreciation for his friends.

“When I told you to not do that again...” Aramis said eventually. He sounded tired. “I didn’t mean dying. I—“

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

“All of this, it made me... I doubted—I couldn’t believe in God.”

Aramis did not look up. He seemed hesitant, shrinking back into his seat, withdrawing from Athos as if he expected punishment.

Athos had no such intentions. He was truly no stranger to losing faith when circumstances were dire. Nevertheless, it pained him to see his friend in that same state, to see him question that which had given him purpose and strength throughout his life.

"You told me once that it doesn't matter what I believe," Athos said, trying to put all of his love and whatever shredded remnants of faith he still had into his words. "Because _He believes in you_."

Slowly, Aramis let his hands slide down his face until they covered his mouth. His eyes, red and swollen, lingered on Athos. For once he looked open and vulnerable, unwilling or unable to hide the matters he wrestled with in his heart and mind.

Athos held his gaze. He hoped that God, or Porthos’ Saint Jude, or whoever else might intervene on his behalf, would help him express how much Aramis and all he had suffered and done for him truly meant.

He did not know how long they sat like this, but eventually Aramis brushed back his hair and sighed. He straightened up slowly and stood, lips forming words that would not come. He dithered, clearly wanting to leave, but not knowing how.

Athos simply nodded his head, briefly closing his eyes.

Still hesitant, looking anywhere but at Athos, Aramis made to round the cast-iron screen to head for the door.

“Aramis,” Athos said and waited for him to turn around. “Life is fleeting, remember that.”

Aramis huffed, the mask of composure sliding firmly into place once more. But Athos knew he didn’t have to tell him to remember that when he was playing with his own life and those of others.

“Remember to enjoy it fully,” he said instead.

Aramis blinked his eyes and then put on his hat.

He left the room without another word, the door clicking closed behind him. Athos could hear him stop outside, lean heavily against the door and slide down against it.

Athos waited.

For a long time, he heard nothing from beyond the door. Eventually, Aramis sighed heavily, got to his feet, and left.

Athos was strangely disappointed, but chided himself for the childish notion. Aramis was his own man after all. He had no right to keep him. Athos used the time alone to work on his drills. They were nothing but gentle exercises, meant to help him regain some strength and flexibility, but d’Artagnan called them his drills. For all his teasing, d’Artagnan was always eager to help him, taking great pride in the small progress Athos made

Aramis returned at noon, bearing a tray of food and drink. When Athos made to continue their previous conversation, eager to set things right between them, Aramis cut him off swiftly. They proceeded to have lunch as if nothing had happened, chatting about the latest recruits and speculating on the outcome of the royal hunt.

The tension between them remained. Athos was glad to be able to find respite in sleep after their meal. He was still unable to eat much and was easily exhausted, so his need to sleep was not out of the ordinary.

When Athos woke, Aramis had settled comfortably into a chair, bible on his knees and rosary in his hands. Athos smiled at the sight.

Aramis kept his head bowed, the beads slowly gliding through his fingers as he prayed silently. Once he was done, Aramis looked up. Noticing that Athos was awake, he carefully slid the rosary into his pocket.

“Turns out, I’m hardly the first to experience doubts,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

“Nor the last I dare say,” Athos replied.

“Who are we to know the ways of the Lord,” Aramis said, but there was no reproach in his words.

Athos smiled.

A few more days passed and Athos continued to gain strength. The milestones he reached might seem inconsequential for any grown man, but his friends greeted each one with great enthusiasm. He was starting to eat more and, with somebody to steady him, he managed to walk from the bed to the desk.

On one rainy afternoon, he sat in Tréville’s chair, a pillow cushioning his back and a blanket covering his legs. Despite Athos’ protests, claiming he looked like his own grandfather, Porthos insisted on these small comforts.

Porthos sat across the desk from him, grinning broadly as he moved one of his chess pieces across the board they had set up. Athos was out to prove that his mind had not suffered any lasting damage. Porthos might be a talented chess player, quite possibly an exceptionally talented one, but Athos was still the tactician among them.

Their battles went on for hours, boring the other two out of their minds, so they made good use of any time they had to themselves.

There was a gentle tapping on the door. Even now that Athos was feeling better and much less sensitive to noise, nobody wanted to risk causing another spasm.

“Come in,” Athos called.

Tréville entered, greeting them warmly.

“Remind me to discuss any future battle plans with you, Porthos,” he remarked after a glance at the chessboard. “He’s got you in a bind there, Athos.”

Athos bristled at his words.

“I like to make him think so,” he said haughtily.

“Could you leave us alone for a moment?” Tréville asked, turning to Porthos.

Porthos looked inquiringly at Athos, only getting up when he was certain Athos wanted him to leave.

“Captain.” Porthos nodded to Tréville, then turned to Athos. “I shall _faire Charlemagne._ ”

“You were not winning,” Athos shouted after him.

Porthos laughed as he left the room.

Tréville chuckled.

He sat in Porthos’ vacated chair, a visitor in his own office.

“How are you?” he asked, casting a scrutinising glance at Athos.

“Improving,” Athos said. “I should be ready to report for duty before too long.”

Tréville shook his head. “It has been years since I have cared so little about a musketeer returning to duty.”

“You shall have your office back at least,” Athos said.

Tréville waved him off. “Stay. I can be accommodated elsewhere.”

He paused, still looking at Athos critically.

“This has not been easy for you,” he said. “Certainly not physically, but also mentally...”

He left the sentence open.

Athos knew why. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

“I am content,” he said and looked at Tréville. “More so than before. An illness like that has a way of focussing the mind. I’m better than I have been since I joined the regiment.”

“I’m glad,” Tréville said. “You probably don’t remember, but when you were... when things were looking bad... I told you...”

He scrubbed a hand over his beard.

“I remember,” Athos said. “You needn’t worry. I buried my longing for death the day I received my commission.”

Tréville nodded, still regarding Athos critically.

“Back then I threatened you,” he said. “I saw a troubled young man and told him he’d be buried with dishonour if there was the slightest hint of suicide about his death.”

He shook his head.

Athos huffed out a short laugh.

“With all due respect, Captain, no threat of yours could have kept me alive at that point,” he said. Tréville seemed surprised.

“I was too far gone,” Athos continued. “I came to Paris to court death, but it was not your threat that kept me from seeking it out. It was seeing the love Porthos showed Aramis, and your utter devotion to the regiment.”

Tréville nodded slowly. “You joined not long after Savoy,” he said, remembering.

“I was not mistaken,” Athos said, cutting short any reminiscence about Savoy. He did not want to know more about Tréville’s role in that. “We follow your command gladly because we know you love us, every single one of us.”

Tréville remained silent for a while, his gaze boring into Athos. Athos shifted uncomfortably, wondering what Tréville was looking for.

“You inspire great loyalty yourself,” Tréville said thoughtfully.

Athos smiled, thinking of his friends. Five years ago, he had admired the way in which Porthos cared for a slowly recovering Aramis. Now he was the recipient of the same selfless care from all three of them.

“I had nothing to live for when I arrived,” Athos said. “You gave me something, a purpose; you gave me France. But they, they gave me something more tangible. They gave me love, a home. They made France mean so much to me.”

He paused, struggling to accurately summarise his feelings.

“They have given me a new lease on life,” he finally said, smiling. “I owe you my second life and them my third — I shall live it in service to them, to the regiment, and to France.”

Tréville regarded him closely and nodded without uttering another word.

As his body recovered a little more with each passing day, Athos grew increasingly restless. He had spoken to those closest to him, but was also eager to thank the rest of the regiment. He had briefly seen a few of them when they came in to retrieve something from the armoury, and each one of them had been delighted to see him improving, especially once he had been able to get out of bed.

He had yet to step foot outside, though.

When he finally did so, it was on a dreary, overcast day. Bright light still caused him pain, so Aramis insisted on making this as easy for him as possible. Athos had walked the length of the room multiple times without assistance and was confident in his ability to make it outside on his own volition.

All three of his friends hovered close by, but Athos managed to walk without faltering. He leaned heavily against the bannister outside, catching his breath as he blinked into the light.

The whole regiment was assembled in the courtyard. Young Etienne and his friends stood with Bernard who beamed up at Athos with the pride of a father looking at his first-born. Tréville himself was leaning against a pillar, smiling broadly. Jacques the stable boy grinned from ear to ear, and even Serge had emerged from the kitchen.

The men were hesitant to cheer; conscious of the effect noise had had on him for so long.

He thanked them for their consideration, for their help, and he smiled when his words were answered with cries of _One for all, and all for one!_

He knew he was not perfect by any means, but he realised that he was liked, even loved, nonetheless. It was not the fierce and jealous love that his wife had shown him. Where she was fire, all consuming, the love of these men was the air he breathed.

He breathed it deeply.

He was home. He was loved. And he was thankful for it. It seemed more than any man had a right to expect from life.

He had been outside for less than five minutes, but his legs were shaking like those of a young colt. He was aware that his friends had come closer, concerned, watching him closely; once again ready to catch him should he fall.

They all smiled at him and Porthos had tears in his eyes.

“I believe it is necessary to have longed for death,” Athos said quietly. “In order to know how good it is to be alive.”

 

* * *

 

**Thanks**

Thank you to everyone who has followed this story over the past seven months. Whether or not you have commented before, please let me know how you liked it. Your input has been a great source of motivation and inspiration for me. Many thought-provoking discussions have started around the themes of this fic. I have also been fortunate to get to know a few members of this—still pretty new to me—fandom a little better. It has been a real joy. While the series has ended and this fic has now come to an end as well, I hope to stay in touch over our shared enthusiasm for these timeless characters. I have already started my next project, a 16-chapter pre-series fic called _Praise and Glory: Porthos’ Tale_ , so if you would like to see more of my writing, please head on over. I promise it’s worth it. For anything else, please send me a message on here or on tumblr, I’m very diligent in answering and always happy to talk.

Special thanks to Meysun for (unwittingly) providing the initial idea for this fic and subsequently giving me much background information on both medical and cultural matters. Most of all, many, many thanks to the incredible Marigold Faucet, my magnificent beta reader, who has helped me improve my writing so much and continues to be a terrific sounding board for all of my crazy ideas, while also keeping me in line grammatically and frequently reminding me that sentences of the length of the present one are completely and utterly inacceptable, which I’m sure readers will sincerely appreciate as even I acknowledge that the length of this word snake is reaching levels that I was never expecting to find outside of the insanity that is the German language.

* * *

 

**Translations & Explanations**

_Qui ose gagne — “who dares, wins”_ a very well known motto to round this fic off. It is the motto of the 1st Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment of the French Army, as well as many other elite special forces throughout the world, usually ones that can trace their origins back to the British Special Air Service during WW2. This motto is often attributed to David Stirling, founder of the SAS, and looking at his modus operandi, that seems entirely credible. The SAS folks I work with like misquoting it as _“who cares who wins”_.

 _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo — I will sodomize you and face-fuck you,_ first line of Carmen 16, one of the poems of Gaius Valerius Catullus (ca. 84 BC – ca. 54 BC), a response to criticism that the poet was soft and feminine because of his romantic love poems

 _Diable — “Devil”_ (3rd most common curse in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, used 19 times)

 _Pardieu — “By God”_ (2nd most common curse in “Les Trois Mousquetaires”, used 38 times)

 _Vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea —_ My life is moral though my muse is gay, Ovid, Tristia 2.354, also commenting on the matter that a poet's work is not necessarily an accurate reflection of his morals.

 _Saint Jude —_ One of the twelve apostles of Jesus, patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. According to Howard Charles in an Instagram post in 2014, the pendant Porthos carries around his neck is of Saint Jude.

 _Montpellier —_ The siege of Montpellier was a major event in the suppression of the Huguenot rebellion in 1622. Although it eventually ended in the king entering Montpellier, the royal army suffered many losses and the later part of the siege was plagued with hunger and sickness. I’m currently writing about it for my new fic _Praise and Glory: Porthos’ Tale._

 _Jean Guillaume —_ The executioner of Paris at the time, one in a whole dynasty of members of the Guillaume family to hold that post, though their fame would be eclipsed by the Sanson family a century later.

 _First Musketeers —_ The “Musketeers of the military household of the King of France” were founded by Louis XIII in 1622, the year in which Aramis received a scar after being hit by a musket ball at the Île de Ré (historically, the naval battle of Saint-Martin-de-Ré)

 _“I do not believe in God.” – “It doesn’t matter, he believes in you.” —_ Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Christo

 _Faire Charlemagne — “make Charlemagne”_ means to stop playing when you are winning, leaving your opponent no chance to win back his losses, derives from Charlemagne's refusal to give up any of his conquests in his lifetime

 _It is necessary to have longed for death... in order to know how good it is to be alive. —_ Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Christo

* * *

 

**References**

_(Yes, I’m actually going there... there is surprisingly little tetanus in fanfic or even in literature as a whole. So if anybody else is interested in writing it, these are my key sources. May you find them as helpful as I did!)_

Amare, A., Melkamu, Y. and Mekonnen, D., 2012. Tetanus in adults: Clinical presentation, treatment and predictors of mortality in a tertiary hospital in Ethiopia. _Journal of the neurological sciences_ , _317_ (1), pp.62-65.

Brickell, D., 1849. Case of Traumatic Tetanus. _The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal_ , _40_ (6), pp.122-123.

Chandler, J., 1822. Case of Tetanus Which Terminated in Recovery. _The New England Journal of Medicine, Surgery and Collateral Branches of Science_ , _11_ (3), pp.243-246.

Creech Jr, O., Glover, A. and Ochsner, A., 1957. Tetanus: evaluation of treatment at Charity Hospital, New Orleans, Louisiana. _Annals of surgery_ , _146_ (3), p.369.

Drew, A.L., 1954. Tetanus: Historical Review of Treatment. _Neurology, 4_ (6), pp.449-469.

Holmes, W.H., 1940. Bacillary and Rickettsial Infections. Acute and Chronic. A Textbook. _The Macmillan Company: New York._

Hsu, S.S. and Groleau, G., 2001. Tetanus in the emergency department: a current review. _The Journal of emergency medicine_ , _20_ (4), pp.357-365.

Lawrence, J.R. and Sando, M.J.W., 1959. Treatment of severe tetanus. _British medical journal_ , _2_ (5143), p.113.

Malone, J.W., 1843. Case of Traumatic Tetanus: In Which the Sulphate of Quinia Was Succesfully Used. _Provincial medical journal and retrospect of the medical sciences_ , _7_ (170), p.246.

Manring, M.M., Hawk, A., Calhoun, J.H. and Andersen, R.C., 2009. Treatment of war wounds: a historical review. _Clinical Orthopaedics and Related Research®_ , _467_ (8), pp.2168-2191.

O'Shaughnessy, W.B., 1843. On the preparations of the Indian Hemp, or Gunjah: Cannabis Indica. _Provincial Medical Journal and Retrospect of the Medical Sciences_ , _5_ (123), p.363.

Prioreschi, P., 1996. _A History of Medicine: Roman Medicine_ (Vol. 3). Edwin Mellen Press.

Ringer, T., 1852. Case Of Traumatic Tetanus Successfully Treated By Opium. _The Lancet_ , _59_ (1493), pp.355-356.

Russel, J. (1860). Clinical lecture on opium: its use and abuse. _British Medical Journal._ No. 158, pp. 334-336.

Sang, J., 1828. Case Of Traumatic Tetanus, Successfully Treated. _The Lancet_ , _10_ (265), pp.826-827.

Semple, D., 1899. The treatment of tetanus by the intracerebral injection of antitoxin. _The British Medical Journal, 1_ (1984), pp. 10-12.

Stilwell, C., 1855. Seven Cases of Tetanus. _The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal_ , _53_ (10), pp.206-208.

Thwaites, C.L., Yen, L.M., Loan, H.T., Thuy, T.T.D., Thwaites, G.E., Stepniewska, K., Soni, N., White, N.J. and Farrar, J.J., 2006. Magnesium sulphate for treatment of severe tetanus: a randomised controlled trial. _The Lancet_ , _368_ (9545), pp.1436-1443.

West, R., 1936. Intravenous curarine in the treatment of tetanus. _The Lancet_ , _227_ (5862), pp.12-16.


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